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SHE     WAS     PROMISED    TO    SLOW    JIM    TOOL 


EVERY    MAN 

FOR 

H  I  M  S  F,  L  F 

BY 

NORMAN    DUNCAN 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  SHINING  LIGHT" 

"DOCTOR  LUKE  OF  THE  LABRADOR" 

ETC.     ETC. 

NEW  YORK   AND   LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

M  CM  VI  I  I 

Copyright,  1906, 1907, 1908,  by  Hakphk  &  Brothkrs, 

Copyright,  1906,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin,  and  Company. 

Copyright,  1905,  by  Thk  Outlook  Company. 

Copjrright,  1907,  by  Thk  Century  Co. 

All  rights  reserved 

Pablished  September,  1908. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Wayfarer i 

II.  A  Matter  of  Expediency 40 

III.  The  Minstrel 66 

IV.  The  Squall 98 

V.  The  Fool  of  Skeleton  Tickle  .    .    .  132 

VI.  A  Comedy  of  Candlestick  Cove  .     .     .  149 

VII.  "  By-an'-by"  Brown  of  Blunder  Cove  182 

VIII.  They  Who  Lose  at  Love 208 

IX.  The  Revolution  at  Satan's  Trap   .    .  231 

X.  The   Surplus .  273 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHE  WAS  PROMISED  TO  SLOW  JIM  TOOL  .  Frontispiece 
"  I   SEED  THE    SHAPE    OF    A    MAN    LEAP    FOR 

MY  PLACE  " Facing  p.    62 

THE  DARK,  SMILING  SALIM,  WITH  HIS  MAGIC 

PACK,  WAS  WELCOME "  88 

"  YOU    KEEP   YOUR   TONGUE    OFF    POOR   'lIZ- 

ABETH  " "         112 

"  YOU     WAS     FIXED     ALL     RIGHT  ?"     PARSON 

JAUNT  ASKED "  I78 

OL'  bill  HULK  CRAWLIn'  DOWN  THE  HILL 

t'  meetin'  " "      276 


'<  «.  ' 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 


EVERY    MAN    FOR 
HIMSELF 

I 

THE  WAYFARER 

THE  harbor  lights  were  out;  all  the  world  of 
sea  and  sky  and  barren  rock  was  black.  It 
was  Saturday — long  after  night,  the  first  snow 
flying  in  the  dark.  Half  a  gale  from  the  north 
ran  whimpering  through  the  rigging,  by  turns 
wrathful  and  plaintive — a  restless  wind:  it  would 
not  leave  the  night  at  ease.  The  trader  Good 
Samaritan  lay  at  anchor  in  Poor  Man's  Harbor 
on  the  Newfoundland  coast:  this  on  her  last  voy- 
age of  that  season  for  the  shore  fish.  We  had 
given  the  schooner  her  Saturday  night  bath;  she 
was  white  and  trim  in  every  part:  the  fish  stowed, 
the  decks  swabbed,  the  litter  of  goods  in  the  cabin 

I 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

restored  to  the  hooks  and  shelves.  The  crew  was 
in  the  forecastle — a  lolling,  snoozy  lot,  now  des- 
perately yawning  for  lack  of  diversion.  Tumm, 
the  clerk,  had  survived  the  moods  of  brooding  and 
light  irony,  and  was  still  wide  awake,  musing 
quietly  in  the  seclusion  of  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke.  By  all  the  signs,  the  inevitable  was  at 
hand;  and  presently,  as  we  had  foreseen,  the 
pregnant  silence  fell. 

With  one  blast — a  swishing  exhalation  break- 
ing from  the  depths  of  his  gigantic  chest,  in  its 
passage  fluttering  his  unkempt  mustache — ^Tumm 
dissipated  the  enveloping  cloud;  and  having  thus 
emerged  from  seclusion  he  moved  his  glance  from 
eye  to  eye  until  the  crew  sat  in  uneasy  expectancy. 

"If  a  lad's  mother  tells  un  he  've  got  a  soul," 
he  began,  "it  don't  do  no  wonderful  harm;  but 
if  a  man  finds  it  out  for  hisself — " 

The  pause  was  for  eflfect;  so,  too,  the  pointed 
finger,  the  lifted  nostrils,  the  deep,  inclusive 
glance. 

" — it  plays  the  devil!" 

The  ship's  boy,  a  cadaverous,  pasty,  red-eyed, 
drooping-jawed  youngster  from  the  Cove  o'  First 
Cousins,  gasped  in  a  painful  way.  He  came  closer 
to  the  forecastle  table — a  fascinated  rabbit. 


THE    WAYFARER 


"Billy  111,"  said  Tumm,  "you  better  turn  in." 

"I  isn't  sleepy,  sir." 

"I  'low  you  better  had"  Tumm  warned.  "It 
ain't  fit  for  such  as  you  t*  hear." 

The  boy's  voice  dropped  to  an  awed  whisper. 
"I  wants  t'  hear,"  he  said. 

"Hear?" 

"Ay,  sir.  I  wants  t'  hear  about  souls — an' 
the  devil." 

Tumm  sighed.  "Ah,  well,  lad,"  said  he,  "I 
'low  you  was  born  t'  be  troubled  by  fears.  God 
help  us  all!" 

We  waited. 

"He  come,"  Tumm  began,  "from  Jug  Cove — 
bein',"  he  added,  indulgently,  after  a  significant 
pause,  "born  there — an'  that  by  sheer  ill  luck  of 
a  windy  night  in  the  fall  o'  the  year,  when  the  ol* 
woman  o'  Tart  Harbor,  which  used  t'  be  handy 
thereabouts,  was  workin'  double  watches  at 
Whale  Run  t'  save  the  life  of  a  trader's  wife 
o'  the  name  o'  Tiddle.  I  'low,"  he  continued, 
"that  'tis  the  only  excuse  a  man  could  have  for 
hailin'  from  Jug  Cove;  for,"  he  elucidated,  "'tis 
a  mean  place  t'  the  westward  o'  Fog  Island,  a 
bit  below  the  Black  Gravestones,  where  the 
Soldier  o'  the  Cross  was  picked  up  by  Satan's 

3 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Tail  in  the  nor'easter  o'  last  fall.  You  opens  the 
Cove  when  you  rounds  Greedy  Head  o'  the  Hen- 
an'-Chickens  an'  lays  a  course  for  Gentleman 
Tickle  t'  other  side  o'  the  Bay.  'Tis  there  that 
Jug  Cove  lies;  an'  whatever,"  he  proceeded, 
being  now  well  under  way,  with  all  sail  drawing 
in  a  snoring  breeze,  "'tis  where  the  poor  devil 
had  the  ill  luck  t'  hail  from.  We  was  drove 
there  in  the  Quick  as  Wink  in  the  southerly  gale 
o'  the  Year  o*  the  Big  Shore  Catch;  an'  we  lied 
three  dirty  days  in  the  lee  o'  the  Pillar  o'  Cloud, 
waitin'  for  civil  weather;  for  we  was  fished  t' 
the  scrupper-holes,  an'  had  no  heart  t*  shake 
hands  with  the  sea  that  was  runnin'.  'Tis  a 
mean  place  t'  be  wind-bound — this  Jug  Cove: 
tight  an'  dismal  as  chokee,  with  walls  o'  black 
rock,  an*  as  nastv  a  front  yard  o'  sea  as  ever  I 
knowed. 

***Ecod!'  thinks  I,  'I'll  just  take  a  run  ashore  t' 
see  how  bad  a  mess  really  was  made  o'  Jug  Cove.' 

"Which  bein'  done,  I  crossed  courses  for  the 
first  time  with  Abraham  Botch — Botch  by  name, 
an'  botch,  accordin'  t'  my  poor  lights,  by  nat- 
ure: Abraham  Botch,  God  help  un!  o'  Jug  Cove. 
'Twas  a  foggy  day — a  cold,  wet  time :  ecod !  the 
day  felt  like  the  corpse  of  a  drowned  cook.  The 
moss  was  soggy;  the  clifi^s  an*  rocks  was  all  a-drip; 

4 


THE   WAYFARER 


the  spruce  was  soaked  t'  the  skin — the  earth  all 
wettish  an'  sticky  an'  cold.  The  southerly  gale 
ramped  over  the  sea;  an'  the  sea  got  so  mad  at  the 
wind  that  it  fair  frothed  at  the  mouth.  I  'low  the 
sea  was  tired  o'  foolin',  an'  wanted  t'  go  t*  sleep; 
but  the  wind  kep'  teasin'  it — ^kep'  slappin'  an* 
pokin'  an'  pushin' — till  the  sea  couldn't  stand  it 
no  more,  an'  just  got  mad.  Off  shore,  in  the 
front  yard  o'  Jug  Cove,  'twas  all  white  with 
breakin'  rocks — as  dirty  a  sea  for  fishin*  punts 
as  a  man  could  sail  in  nightmares.  From  the 
Pillar  o'  Cloud  I  could  see,  down  below,  the 
seventeen  houses  o'  Jug  Cove,  an'  the  sweet  little 
Quick  as  Wink;  the  water  was  black,  an'  the  hills 
was  black,  but  the  ship  an'  the  mean  little  houses 
was  gray  in  the  mist.  T'  sea  they  was  nothin' — 
just  fog  an'  breakers  an'  black  waves.  T'  land- 
ward, likewise — black  hills  in  the  mist.  A  dirty 
sea  an*  a  lean  shore! 

"'Tumm,'  thinks  I,  "tis  more  by  luck  than 
good  conduct  that  you  wasn't  born  here.  You'd 
thank  God,  Tumm,'  thinks  I,  *  if  you  didn't  feel 
so  dismal  scurvy  about  bein*  the  Teacher's  pet.' 

"An'  then— 

"'Good-even,'  says  Abraham  Botch. 

"There  he  lied — on  the  blue,  spongy  caribou- 
moss,  at  the   edge  o'  the  cliff,  with   the  black- 

5 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

an*-white  sea  below,  an'  the  mist  in  the  sky  an* 
on  the  hills  t'  leeward.  Ecod!  but  he  was  lean 
an*  ragged:  this  fellow  sprawlin*  there,  with  his 
face  t*  the  sky  an'  his  legs  an'  leaky  boots  scattered 
over  the  moss.  Skinny  legs  he  had,  an'  a  chest 
as  thin  as  paper;  but  aloft  he  carried  more  sail 
'n  the  law  allows — sky-scraper,  star-gazer,  an', 
ay!  even  the  curse-o*-Gfod-over-all.  That  was 
Botch — mostly  head,  an'  a  sight  more  forehead 
than  face,  God  help  un!  He'd  a  long,  girlish 
face,  a  bit  thin  at  the  cheeks  an'  skimped  at  the 
chin;  an*  they  wasn't  beard  enough  anywheres 
t*  start  a  bird's  nest.  Ah,  but  the  eyes  o'  that 
botch!  Them  round,  deep  eyes,  with  the  still 
waters  an*  clean  shores!  I  'low  I  can't  tell  you 
no  more — but  only  this:  that  they  was  somehow 
like  the  sea,  blue  an*  deep  an'  full  o'  change  an' 
sadness.  Ay,  there  lied  Botch  in  the  fog-drip — 
poor  Botch  o*  Jug  Cove:  eyes  in  his  head;  his 
dirty,  lean  body  clothed  in  patched  moleskin  an* 
rotten  leather. 

"An*— 

"'Good-even,  yourself,*  says  I. 

"  *  My  name*s  Botch,*  says  he.     *  Isn't  you  from 
the  Quick  as  Wink?' 

I  is,*  says  I;  *an*  they  calls  me  Tumm.' 
'That*s  a  very  queer  name,*  says  he. 
6 


THE   WAYFARER 


"*Oh  no!'  says  I.  *They  Isn't  nothin'  queer 
about  the  name  o'  Tumm.' 

"He  laughed  a  bit — an'  rubbed  his  feet  to- 
gether: just  Hke  a  tickled  youngster.  *Ay,*  says 
he;  'that's  a  wonderful  queer  name.  Hark!* 
says  he.  *You  just  Hsten,  an'  I'll  show  you. 
Tumm/  says  he,  *Tumm,  Tumm,  Tumm.  .  .  . 
Tumm,  Tumm,  Tumm.  .  .  .  Tumm — ' 

"*  Don't,'  says  I,  for  it  give  me  the  fidgets. 
*  Don't  say  it  so  often.* 

"*Why  not?'  says  he. 

"*I  don't  like  it,"  says  I. 

"'Tumm,'  says  he,  with  a  little  cackle,  *Tumm, 
Tumm,  Tumm—' 

"  *  Don't  you  do  that  no  more,'  says  I.  '  I  won't 
have  it.  When  you  says  it  that  way,  I  'low  I 
don't  know  whether  my  name  is  Tumm  or  Tump. 
'Tis  a  very  queer  name.  I  wisht,'  says  I,  *that 
I'd  been  called  Smith.' 

""Twouldn't  make  no  difference,'  says  he. 
*A11  names  is  queer  if  you  stops  t'  think.  Every 
word  you  ever  spoke  is  queer.  Everything  is 
queer.  It's  all  queer — once  you  stops  t*  think 
about  it.' 

"*Then  I  don't  think  I'll  stop,'  says  I,  'for 
I  don't  like  things  t'  be  queer.' 

"Then  Botch  had  a  little  spell  o'  thinkin*." 
7 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 


Tumm  leaned  over  the  forecastle  table. 

"Now,"  said  he,  forefinger  hfted,  "accordin'  t' 
my  lights,  it  ain*t  nice  t*  see  any  man  thinkin*: 
for  a  real  man  'ain*t  got  no  call  t'  think,  an'  can't 
afford  the  time  on  the  coast  o'  Newf'un'land, 
where  they's  too  much  fog  an'  wind  an'  rock  t' 
'low  it.  For  me,  I'd  rather  see  a  man  in  a  'leptic 
fit:  for  fits  is  more  or  less  natural  an'  can't  be 
helped.  But  Botch!  When  Botch  thunk — when 
he  got  hard  at  it — 'twould  give  you  the  shivers. 
He  sort  o'  drawed  away — got  into  nothin'.  They 
wasn't  no  sea  nor  shore  for  Botch  no  more;  they 
wasn't  no  earth,  no  heavens.  He  got  rid  o'  all 
that,  as  though  it  hindered  the  work  he  was  at, 
an'  didn't  matter,  anyhow.  They  wasn't  nothin' 
left  o'  things  but  Botch — an'  the  nothin'  about 
un.  Botch  in  nothin'.  Accordin'  t'  my  lights, 
'tis  a  sinful  thing  t'  do;  an'  when  I  first  seed  Botch 
at  it,  I  'lowed  he  was  lackin'  in  religious  opinions. 
'Twas  just  as  if  his  soul  had  pulled  down  the 
blinds,  an'  locked  the  front  door,  an*  gone  out  for 
a  walk,  without  leavin'  word  when  'twould  be 
home.  An',  accordin'  t'  my  lights,  it  ain't  right, 
nor  wise,  for  a  man's  soul  t'  do  no  such  thing. 
A  man's  soul  'ain't  got  no  common-sense;  it  'ain't 
got  no  caution,  no  manners,  no  nothin'  that  it 
needs  in  a  wicked  world  Hke  this.     When  it  gets 

8 


THE   WAYFARER 


loose,  't  is  liable  t'  wander  far,  an'  get  lost,  an' 
miss  its  supper.  Accordin*  t'  my  lights,  it  ought 
t'  be  kep'  in,  an*  fed  an'  washed  regular,  an'  put 
t'  bed  at  nine  o'clock.  But  Botch!  well,  there 
lied  his  body  in  the  wet,  like  an  unloved  child, 
while  his  soul  went  cavortin'  over  the  Milky  Way. 

"He  come  to  all  of  a  sudden.  *Tumm, '  says 
he,  'you  is.' 

"'Ay,'  says  I,  'Tumm  I  is.  'Tis  the  name  I 
was  born  with.' 

"'You  don't  find  me,*  says  he.     'I  says  you  is/ 

"'Is  what?' 

"'Just— is  r 

"With  that,  I  took  un.  'Twas  all  t'  oncet. 
He  was  tellin'  me  that  I  was.  Well,  I  is.  Damme ! 
'twasn't  anything  I  didn't  know  if  I'd  stopped  t' 
think.  But  they  wasn't  nobody  ever  called  my 
notice  to  it  afore,  an*  I'd  been  too  busy  about  the 
fish  t'  mind  it.  So  I  was  sort  o' — s'prised.  It 
don't  matter,  look  you!  t'  be;  but  'tis  mixin'  t'  the 
mind  an'  fearsome  t*  stop  t'  think  about  it.  An* 
it  come  t*  me  all  t'  oncet;  an'  I  was  s'prised,  an* 
I  was  scared. 

"'Now, Tumm,'  says  he,  with  his  finger  p'int- 
in*,  'where  was  you  ?* 

"'Fishin'  off  the  Shark's  Fin,'  says  I.  'We 
just  come  up  loaded,  an* — * 

9 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

"*You  don't  find  me/  says  he.  *I  says,  where 
was  you  afore  you  was  is  ?* 

***Is  you  gone  mad  ?*  says  I. 

"'Not  at  all,  Tumm,'  says  he.  *Not  at  all! 
*Tis  a  plain  question.  You  /j,  isn't  you  ?  Well, 
then,  you  must  have  been  was.  Now,  then, 
Tumm,  where  was  you  ?* 

"'Afore  I  was  born?* 

"*Ay — afore  you  was  is.* 

"* God  knows!*  says  I.  *  I  *low  /  don't.  An' 
look  you,  Botch,*  says  I,  *this  talk  ain't  right. 
You  isn't  a  infidel,  is  you  ?* 

'**Oh  no!'  says  he. 

"*Then,'  says  I,  for  I  was  mad,  'where  in  hell 
did  you  think  up  all  this  ghostly  tomfoolery  ?* 

"'On  the  grounds,'  says  he. 

'"On  the  grounds?'  Lads,"  said  Tumm  to 
the  crew,  his  voice  falling,  ** you  knows  what  that 
means,  doesn't  you  ?" 

The  Jug  Cove  fishing-grounds  lie  off  Break- 
heart  Head.  They  are  beset  with  peril  and  all 
the  mysteries  of  the  earth.  They  are  fished  from 
little  punts,  which  the  men  of  Jug  Cove  cleverly 
make  with  their  own  hands,  every  man  his  own 
punt,  having  been  taught  to  this  by  their  fathers, 
who  learned  of  the  fathers  before  them,  out  of  the 

10 


THE   WAYFARER 


knowledge  which  ancient  contention  with  the 
wiles  of  the  wind  and  of  the  sea  had  disclosed. 
The  timber  is  from  the  wilderness,  taken  at 
leisure;  the  iron  and  hemp  are  from  the  far-off 
southern  world,  which  is  to  the  men  of  the  place 
like  a  grandmother's  tale,  loved  and  incredible. 
Off  the  Head  the  sea  is  spread  with  rock  and 
shallow.  It  is  a  sea  of  wondrously  changing  colors 
— blue,  red  as  blood,  gray,  black  with  the  night. 
It  is  a  sea  of  changing  moods:  of  swift,  unpro- 
voked wrath;  of  unsought  and  surprising  gentle- 
nesses. It  is  not  to  be  understood.  There  is  no 
mastery  of  it  to  be  won.  It  gives  no  accounting 
to  men.  It  has  no  feeling.  The  shore  is  bare 
and  stolid.  Black  cliffs  rise  from  the  water;  they 
are  forever  white  at  the  base  with  the  fret  of  the 
sea.  Inland,  the  blue-black  hills  lift  their  heads; 
they  are  unknown  to  the  folk — hills  of  fear,  re- 
mote and  cruel.  Seaward,  fogs  and  winds  are 
bred;  the  misty  distances  are  vast  and  mysterious, 
wherein  are  the  great  cliffs  of  the  world's  edge. 
Winds  and  fogs  and  ice  are  loose  and  passionate 
upon  the  waters.  Overhead  is  the  high,  wide 
sky,  its  appalling  immensity  revealed  from  the 
rim  to  the  rim.  Clouds,  white  and  black,  crimson 
and  gold,  fluffy,  torn  to  shreds,  wing  restlessly 
from  nowhere  to  nowhere.     It  is  a  vast,  silent, 

II 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

restless  place.  At  night  its  infinite  spaces  are 
alight  with  the  dread  marvel  of  stars.  The  uni- 
verse is  voiceless  and  indifferent.  It  has  no  pur- 
pose— save  to  follow  its  inscrutable  will.  Sea 
and  wind  are  aimless.  The  land  is  dumb,  self- 
centred;  it  has  neither  message  nor  care  for  its 
children.  And  from  dawn  to  dark  the  punts  of 
Jug  Cove  float  in  the  midst  of  these  terrors. 

"Eh?'*  Tumm  resumed.  "Tou  knows  what 
it  is,  lads.  *Tis  bad  enough  t'  think  in  company, 
when  a  man  can  peep  into  a  human  eye  an'  steady 
his  old  hulk;  but  t'  think  alone — an'  at  the  fishin'! 
I  'low  Botch  ought  to  have  knowed  better;  for 
they's  too  many  men  gone  t'  the  mad -house  t' 
St.  John's  already  from  this  here  coast  along  o' 
thinkin'.  But  Botch  thinked  at  will.  'Tumm,' 
says  he,  *I  done  a  power  o'  thinkin'  in  my  life — 
out  there  on  the  grounds,  between  Break-heart 
Head  an'  the  Tombstone,  that  breakin'  rock  t' 
the  east'ard.  I've  thunk  o'  wind  an*  sea,  o'  sky 
an'  soil,  o'  tears  an'  laughter  an'  crooked  backs, 
o'  love  an'  death,  rags  an'  robbery,  of  all  the 
things  of  earth  an*  in  the  hearts  o'  men;  an*  I 
don't  know  nothin'!  My  God!  after  all,  I  don't 
know  nothin'!  The  more  I've  thunk,  the  less 
I've  knowed.     *Tis  all  come  down  t*  this,  now, 

12 


THE   WAYFARER 


Tumm :  that  I  is.  An'  if  I  tSj  I  was  an'  will  be. 
But  sometimes  I  misdoubt  the  was;  an'  if  I  loses 
my  grip  on  the  was,  Tumm,  my  God!  what  '11 
become  o'  the  will  be  ?  Can  you  tell  me  that, 
Tumm  ?  Is  I  got  t'  come  down  t'  the  is  ?  Can't 
I  build  nothin'  on  that  ?  Can't  I  go  no  further 
than  the  is  ?  An'  will  I  lose  even  that  ?  Is  I  got 
t'  come  down  t'  knowin'  nothin'  at  all  ?' 

***Look  you!  Botch,'  says  I,  'don't  you  know 
the  price  o'  fish  ?' 

"'No,'  says  he.  'But  it  ain't  nothin'  t'  know. 
It  ain't  worth  knowin'.     It — it — it  don't  matter!* 

"'I  'low,'  says  I,  'your  wife  don't  think  like- 
wise.    You  got  a  wife,  isn't  you  ?* 

*"Ay,'  says  he. 

"*An'  a  kid?' 

*"I  don't  know,'  says  he. 

"'You  what!'  says  I. 

*"I  don't  know,'  says  he.  *She  was  engaged 
at  it  when  I  come  up  on  the  Head.  They  was  a 
lot  o'  women  in  the  house,  an'  a  wonderful  lot  o' 
fuss  an*  muss.  You'd  be  s' prised,  Tumm,'  says 
he,  *t'  know  how  much  fuss  a  thing  like  this  can 
make.  So,'  says  he,  *  I  'lowed  I'd  come  up  on  the 
Pillar  o'  Cloud  an'  think  a  spell  in  peace.' 

"'An' what?' says  I. 

'"Have  a  little  spurt  at  thinkin'.' 
13 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"'O'she?' 

**'Oh  no,  Tumm,'  says  he;  *that  ain't  nothin* 
t*  think  about.  But/  says  he,  *I  s*pose  I  might 
as  well  go  down  now,  an'  see  what's  happened. 
I  hopes  'tis  a  boy,'  says  he,  'for  somehow  girls 
don't  seem  t'  have  much  show.* 

"An'  with  that,"  drawled  Tumm,  "down  the 
Pillar  o'  Cloud  goes  Abraham  Botch." 

He  paused  to  laugh;  and  'twas  a  soft,  sad  little 
laugh — dwelling  upon  things  long  past. 

"An'  by-and-by,"  he  continued,  "I  took  the 
goat-path  t'  the  water-side;  an'  I  went  aboard  the 
Quick  as  Wink  in  a  fog  o'  dreams  an'  questions. 
The  crew  was  weighin*  anchor,  then;  an*  'twas 
good  for  the  soul  t*  feel  the  deck-planks  under- 
foot, an*  t'  hear  the  clank  o'  solid  iron,  an'  t'  join 
the  work-song  o'  men  that  had  muscles  an'  bowels. 
'Skipper  Zeb,'  says  I,  when  we  had  the  old  craft 
coaxed  out  o'  the  Tickle,  'leave  me  have  a  spell 
at  the  wheel.  For  the  love  o'  man,'  says  I,  'let 
me  get  a  grip  of  it!  I  wants  t*  get  hold  o'  some- 
thing with  my  hands — something  real  an*  solid; 
something  I  knows  about;  something  that  means 
something!'  For  all  this  talk  o'  the  is  an'  wasy 
an*  all  these  thoughts  o'  the  whyy  an'  all  the  cry- 
baby 'My  Gods!'  o'  Abraham  Botch,  an'  the 
mystery  o*  the  wee  new  soul,  had  made  me  dizzy 

14 


THE   WAYFARER 


in  the  head  an*  a  bit  sick  at  the  stomach.  So  I 
took  the  wheel,  an'  felt  the  leap  an'  quiver  o'  the 
ship,  an'  got  my  eye  screwed  on  the  old  Giant's 
Thumb,  loomin'  out  o'  the  east'ard  fog,  an'  kep' 
her  wilful  head  up,  an'  wheedled  her  along  in 
the  white  tumble,  with  the  spray  o'  the  sea  cool 
an'  wet  on  my  face;  an'  I  was  better  t'  oncet. 
The  Boilin'-Pot  Shallows  was  dead  ahead;  below 
the  fog  I  could  see  the  manes  o'  the  big  white 
horses  flung  t'  the  gale.  An'  I  'lowed  that  oncet 
I  got  the  Quick  as  Wink  in  them  waters,  deep 
with  fish  as  she  was,  I'd  have  enough  of  a  real 
man's  troubles  t'  sink  the  woes  o'  the  soul  out  o' 
all  remembrance. 

"*I  won't  care  a  squid,'  thinks  I,  *for  the  why 
nor  the  wherefore  o'  nothin'  1' 

"'N  neither  I  did." 

The  skipper  of  the  Good  Samaritan  yawned. 

"  Isn't  they  nothin'  about  fish  in  this  here  yarn  ?" 

he  asked. 

"Nor  tradinV'  snapped  Tumm. 

"Nothin'  about  love?" 

"Botch  never  knowed  about  love." 

"If  you'll  'scuse  me,"  said  the  skipper,  "I'll 

turn  in.     I  got  enough." 

But  the  clammy,  red-eyed  lad  from  the  Cove 
J5 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

o*  First  Cousins  hitched  closer  to  the  table,  and 
put  his  chin  in  his  hands.  He  was  now  in  a 
shower  of  yellow  light  from  the  forecastle  lamp. 
His  nostrils  were  working;  his  eyes  were  wide 
and  restless  and  hot.  He  had  bitten  at  a  chap- 
ped underlip  until  the  blood  came. 

"About  that  will  bey*  he  whispered,  timidly. 
"Did  Botch  never  say — where?'* 

"You  better  turn  in,"  Tumm  answered. 

"But  I  wants  t'  know!" 

Tumm  averted  his  face.  "Ill,"  he  command- 
ed, quietly,  "you  better  turn  in." 

The  boy  was  obedient. 

"  In  March,  'long  about  two  year  after,"  Tumm 
resumed,  "I  shipped  for  the  ice  aboard  the 
Neptune.  We  got  a  scattered  swile  [seal]  off 
the  Horse  Islands;  but  ol'  Cap'n  Lane  Mowed 
the  killin*  was  so  mean  that  he'd  move  t'  sea  an* 
come  up  with  the  ice  on  the  outside,  for  the  wind 
had  been  in  the  norVest  for  a  likely  spell.  We 
cotched  the  body  o*  ice  t*  the  nor'east  o*  the 
Funks;  an'  the  swiles  was  sure  there — hoods  an' 
harps  an'  whitecoats  an'  all.  They  was  three 
St.  John's  steamers  there,  an'  they'd  been  killin 
for  a  day  an'  a  half;  so  the  ol'  man  turned  our 
crew  loose  on  the   ice  without  waitin'  t'  wink, 

i6 


THE  WAYFARER 


though  'twas  afternoon,  with  a  wicked  gray  look 
t'  the  sky  in  the  west,  which  was  where  the 
wind  was  jumpin'  from.  An*  we  had  a  red  time 
— ay,  now,  beHeve  me:  a  soppy  red  time  of  it 
among  the  swiles  that  day!  They  was  men  from 
Green  Bay,  an'  Bonavist',  an'  the  Exploits,  an' 
the  South  Coast,  an'  a  swarm  o'  Irish  from  St. 
John's;  they  was  so  many  men  on  the  pack, 
ecod!  that  you  couldn't  call  their  names.  An* 
we  killed  an'  sculped  till  dusk.  An'  then  the 
weather  broke  with  snow;  an'  afore  we  knowed 
it  we  was  lost  from  the  ships  in  the  cloud  an* 
wind — three  hundred  men,  ecod!  smothered  an* 
blinded  by  snow:  howlin'  for  salvation  like  souls 
in  a  frozen  hell. 

"'Tumm,'  thinks  I,  *you  better  get  aboard 
o'  something  the  sea  won't  break  over.  This 
pack,'  thinks  I,  *will  certain  go  abroad  when  the 
big  wind  gets  at  it." 

**So  I  got  aboard  a  bit  of  a  berg;  an*  when  I 
found  the  lee  side  I  sot  down  in  the  dark  an* 
thunk  hard  about  different  things — sunshine  an* 
supper  an'  the  like  o'  that;  for  they  wasn't  no 
use  thinkin'  about  what  was  goin'  for'ard  on  the 
pack  near  by.  An'  there,  on  the  side  o'  the  little 
berg,  sits  I  till  mornin';  an'  in  the  mornin',  out 
o'  the  blizzard  t'  win'ward,  along  comes  Abraham 

17 


EVERY    MAN    FOR  HIMSELF 

Botch  o'  Jug  Cove,  marooned  on  a  flat  pan  o* 
ice.  'Twas  comin*  down  the  wind — clippin'  it 
toward  my  overgrown  lump  of  a  craft  like  a 
racin*  yacht.  When  I  sighted  Botch,  roundin' 
a  point  o*  the  berg,  I  'lowed  I'd  have  no  more'n 
twenty  minutes  t'  yam  with  un  afore  he  was  out 
o*  hail  an*  sight  in  the  snow  t'  leeward.  He  was 
squatted  on  his  haunches,  with  his  chin  on  his 
knees,  white  with  thin  ice,  an'  fringed  an'  decked 
with  icicles;  an*  it  'peared  t'  me,  from  the  way 
he  was  took  up  with  the  nothin*  about  un,  that  he 
was  still  thinkin'.  The  pack  was  gone  abroad, 
then — scattered  t'  the  four  winds:  they  wasn't 
another  pan  t*  be  seed  on  the  black  water.  An' 
the  sea  was  runnin'  high — a  fussy  wind-lop  over 
a  swell  that  broke  in  big  whitecaps,  which  went 
swishin*  away  with  the  wind.  A  scattered  sea 
broke  over  Botch's  pan;  'twould  fall  aboard,  an* 
break,  an*  curl  past  un,  risin*  to  his  waist.  But 
the  poor  devil  didn't  seem  t'  take  much  notice. 
He'd  shake  the  water  off,  an'  cough  it  out  of  his 
throat;  an*  then  he'd  go  on  takin*  observations  in 
the  nothin*  dead  ahead. 

"*Ahoy,  Botch!'  sings  I. 

"He  knowed  me  t'  oncet.  *Tumm!'  he  sings 
out.     *  Well,  well!    Thatjyow.?* 

"*The  same,'  says  I.  *You  got  a  bad  berth 
i8 


THE   WAYFARER 


there,  Botch.     I  wish  you  was  aboard  the  berg 
with  me.* 

***Oh/  says  he,  *the  pan  '11  do.  I  gets  a  bit 
choked  with  spray  when  I  opens  my  mouth;  but 
they  isn't  no  good  reason  why  I  shouldn't  keep 
it  shut.  A  man  ought  t'  breathe  through  his 
nose,  anyhow.     That's  what  it's  for* 

"'Twas  a  bad  day — a  late  dawn  in  a  hellish 
temper.  They  wasn't  much  of  it  t'  see — ^just  a 
space  o'  troubled  water,  an*  the  big  unfeelin* 
cloud.  An',  God!  how  cold  it  was!  The  wind 
was  thick  with  dry  snow,  an'  it  come  whirlin* 
out  o'  the  west  as  if  it  wanted  t*  do  damage,  an* 
meant  t*  have  its  way.  'Twould  grab  the  crests 
o'  the  seas  an'  fling  un  oflF  like  handfuls  o'  white 
dust.  An'  in  the  midst  o'  this  was  poor  Botch 
o'  Jug  Cove! 

***This  wind,*  says  I,  *will  work  up  a  wonder- 
ful big  sea.  Botch.  You'll  be  swep'  oflF  afore 
nightfall.* 

"*No,*  says  he;  *for  by  good  luck,  Tumm,  Fm 
froze  tight  t*  the  pan.' 

***But  the  seas  '11  drown  you.* 

"*I  don't  know,'  says  he.  *I  keeps  breakin* 
the  ice  'round  my  neck,*  says  he,  *an*  if  I  can 
on'y  keep  my  neck  clear  an'  limber  I'll  be  able 
t'  duck  most  o'  the  big  seas.* 

19 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"It  wasn't  nice  t'  see  the  gentle  wretch  squat- 
tin'  there  on  his  haunches.  It  made  me  feel  bad. 
I  wisht  he  was  home  t'  Jug  Cove  thinkin'  of  his 
soul. 

"'Botch,*  says  I,  *I  wisht  you  was  some- 
wheres  else!' 

"  *  Now,  don't  you  trouble  about  that,  Tumm,' 
says  he.  'Please  don't!  The  ice  is  all  on  the 
outside.     I'm  perfeckly  comfortable  inside.' 

"He  took  it  all  so  gracious  that  somehow  or 
other  I  begun  t'  forget  that  he  was  froze  t'  the 
pan  an'  bound  out  t'  sea.  He  was  'longside,  now; 
an'  I  seed  un  smile.  So  I  sort  o'  got  his  feelin'; 
an'  I  didn't  fret  for  un  no  more. 

"'An',  Tumm,'  says  he,  'I've  had  a  wonderful 
grand  night.  I'll  never  forget  it  so  long  as  I 
lives,' 

"'A  what  V  says  I.     'Wasn't  you  cold  ?' 

"'I — I — I  don't  know,'  says  he,  puzzled.  *I 
was  too  busy  t'  notice  much.' 

"'Isn't  you  hungry?' 

"'Why,  Tumm,'  says  he,  in  s'prise,  'I  believes 
I  is,  now  that  you  mentions  it.  I  believes  I'd 
like  a  biscuit.' 

"'I  wisht  I  had  one  t'  shy,'  says  I. 

"'Don't  you  be  troubled,'  says  he.  'My  arms 
is  stuck.     I  couldn't  cotch  it,  anyhow.' 

20 


THE    WAYFARER 


"*  Anyhow,'  says  I,  *I  wisht  I  had  one.' 
"*A  grand  night!'  says  he.  'For  I  got  a  idea, 
Tumm.  They  wasn't  nothin'  t'  disturb  me  all 
night  long.  I  been  all  alone — an'  I  been  quiet. 
An'  I  got  a  idea.  I've  gone  an'  found  out, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  *a  law  o'  life!  Look  you! 
Tumm,'  says  he,  'what  you  aboard  that  berg  for  ? 
'Tis  because  you  had  sense  enough  t'  get  there. 
An'  why  isn't  I  aboard  that  berg .?  'Tis  because 
I  didn't  have  none  o'  the  on'y  kind  o'  sense  that 
was  needed  in  the  mess  last  night.  You'll  be 
picked  up  by  the  fleet,'  says  he,  'when  the  weather 
clears;  an'  Tm  bound  out  t'  sea  on  a  speck  o' 
flat  ice.  This  coast  ain't  kind,'  says  he.  'No 
coast  is  kind.  Men  lives  because  they're  able  for 
it;  not  because  they're  coaxed  to.  An'  the  on'y 
kind  o'  men  this  coast  lets  live  an'  breed  is  the 
kind  she  wants.  The  kind  o'  men  this  coast  puts 
up  with  ain't  weak,  an'  they  ain't  timid,  an' 
they  don't  think.  Them  kind  dies — ^just  the  way 
I  'low  /  got  t'  die.  They  don't  live,  Tumm,  an' 
they  don't  breed.' 

"■^What  about  you  .?'  says  I. 
"'About  me  .?'  says  he. 
"'Ay— that  day  on  the  Pillar  o'  Cloud.' 
"'Oh!'  says  he.     'You  mean  about  she.   Well, 
it  didn't  come  t'  nothin',  Tumm.     The  women 

21 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

folk  wasn't  able  t'  find  me,  an'  they  didn't  know 
which  I  wanted  sove,  the  mother  or  the  child; 
so,  somehow  or  other,  both  went  an'  died  afore  I 
got  there.  But  that  isn't  got  nothin'  t'  do  with 
this: 

"He  was  drifted  a  few  fathoms  past.  Just 
then  a  big  sea  fell  atop  of  un.  He  ducked  real 
skilful,  an'  come  out  of  it  smilin*,  if  sputterin'. 

"*Now,  Tumm,'  says  he,  *if  we  was  t'  the 
s'uth'ard,  where  they  says  'tis  warm  an'  different, 
an'  lives  isn't  lived  the  same,  maybe  you'd  be 
on  the  pan  o'  ice,  an*  I'd  be  aboard  the  berg; 
maybe  you'd  be  like  t'  starve,  an'  I'd  get  so  much 
as  forty  cents  a  day  the  year  round.  They's  a 
great  waste  in  life,'  says  he;  *I  don't  know  why, 
but  there  'tis.  An'  I  'low  I'm  gone  t'  waste  on 
this  here  coast.  I  been  born  out  o'  place,  that's 
all.  But  they's  a  place  somewheres  for  such  as 
me — somewheres  for  the  likes  o'  me.  T'  the 
s'uth'ard,  now,  maybe,  they'd  he  a  place;  t'  the 
s'uth'ard,  maybe,  the  folk  would  want  t'  know 
about  the  things  I  thinks  out — ay,  maybe  they'd 
even  pay  for  the  labor  I'm  put  to !  But  here^ 
you  lives,  an'  I  dies.  Don't  you  see,  Tumm  ? 
'Tis  the  law!  'Tis  why  a  Newf'un'lander  ain't 
a  nigger.  More'n  that,  'tis  why  a  dog's  a  dog 
on  land  an'  a  swile  in  the  water;  'tis  why  a  dog 

22 


THE   WAYFARER 


haves  legs  an'  a  swile  haves  flippers.     Don't  you 
see  ?     'Tis  the  law !' 

"'I  don't  quite  find  you/  says  I. 

"Poor  Botch  shook  his  head.  *They  isn't 
enough  words  in  langwitch/  says  he,  *t'  'splain 
things.    Men  ought  t'  get  t'  work  an'  make  more.' 

"*But  tell  me,'  says  I. 

"Then,  by  Botch's  regular  ill  luck,  under  he 
went,  an'  it  took  un  quite  a  spell  t'  cough  his  voice 
into  workin'  order. 

"* Excuse  me,'  says  he.  'I'm  sorry.  It  come 
too  suddent  t'  be  ducked.' 

"'Sure!' says  I.     V  don't  mind.' 

"*Tumm,'  says  he,  *it  all  comes  down  t'  this: 
The  thing  that  lives  is  the  kind  o'  thing  that's  best 
fit  /'  live  in  the  place  it  lives  in.  That's  a  law 
o'  life!  An'  nobody  but  m^,  Tumm,'  says  he, 
*ever  knowed  it  afore!' 

"  *  It  don't  amount  t'  nothin','  says  I. 

"^'Tisalawo'life!' 

"*But  it  don't  mean  nothin'.' 

"*Tumm,'  says  he,  discouraged,  *I  can't  talk 
t'  you  no  more.  I'm  too  busy.  I  'lowed  when 
I  seed  you  there  on  the  berg  that  you'd  tell  some- 
body what  I  thunk  out  last  night  if  you  got  clear 
o'  this  mess.  An'  I  wanted  everybody  t'  know. 
I  did  so  want  un  t'  know — an' t'  know  that  Abra- 
3  23 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

ham  Botch  o'  Jug  Cove  did  the  thinkin'  all  by 
hisself!  But  you  don't  seem  able.  An',  any- 
how,' says  he,  'I'm  too  busy  t'  talk  no  more. 
They's  a  deal  more  hangin'  on  that  law  'n  I  told 
you.  The  beasts  o'  the  field  is  born  under  it,  an' 
the  trees  o'  the  forest,  an'  all  that  lives.  They's  a 
bigger  law  behind;  an'  I  got  t'  think  that  out  afore 
the  sea  works  up.  I'm  sorry,  Tumm;  but  if  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  just  go  on  thinkin'.  You  wont 
mind,  will  you,  Tumm  ^  1  wouldn't  like  you  t' 
feel  bad.' 

"'Lord,  no!'  says  I.     */  won't  mind.* 

"'Thank  you,  Tumm,'  says  he.  'For  I'm 
greatly  took  by  thinkin'.' 

"An'  so  Botch  sputtered  an'  thunk  an'  kep'  his 
neck  limber  'til  he  drifted  out  o'  sight  in  the 
snow." 

But  that  was  not  the  last  of  the  Jug  Cove 
philosopher. 

"Next  time  I  seed  Botch,"  Tumm  resumed, 
"we  was  both  shipped  by  chance  for  the  Labrador 
from  Twillingate.  'Twas  aboard  the  dirty  little 
Three  Sisters — a  thirty-ton,  fore-an*-aft  green- 
fish  catcher,  skippered  by  Mad  Bill  Likely  o' 
Yellow  Tail  Tickle.  An'  poor  Botch  didn't  look 
healthful.     He  was  blue  an'  wan  an'  wonderful 

24 


THE  WAYFARER 


thin.  An'  he  didn't  look  at  all  right.  Poor 
Botch — ah,  poor  old  Botch!  They  wasn't  no 
more  o'  them  fuddlin'  questions;  they  wasn't  no 
more  o'  that  cock-sure,  tickled  little  cackle.  Them 
big,  deep  eyes  o'  his,  which  used  t'  be  clean  an* 
fearless  an'  sad  an'  nice,  was  all  misty  an'  red, 
like  a  nasty  sunset,  an'  most  unpleasant  shifty. 
I  'lowed  I'd  take  a  look  in,  an'  sort  o'  fathom 
what  was  up;  but  they  was  too  quick  for  me 
— they  got  away  every  time;  an'  I  never  seed 
more'n  a  shadow.  An'  he  kep'  lookin'  over  his 
shoulder,  an'  cockin'  his  ears,  an'  givin'  suddent 
starts,  like  a  poor  wee  child  on  a  dark  road. 
They  wasn't  no  more  o'  that  sinful  gettin'  into 
nothin' — no  more  o'  that  puttin'  away  o'  the  rock 
an'  sea  an'  the  great  big  sky.  I  'lowed,  by  the 
Lord!  that  he  couldn't  do  it  no  more.  All  them 
big  things  had  un  scared  t'  death.  He  didn't 
dast  forget  they  was  there.  He  couldn't  get  into 
nothin'  no  more.  An'  so  I  knowed  he  wouldn't 
be  happy  aboard  the  Three  Sisters  with  that  devil 
of  a  Mad  Bill  Likely  o'  Yellow  Tail  Tickle  for 
skipper. 

"'Botch,'   says   I,  when  we  was   off  Mother 
Burke,  *  how  is  you,  b'y  ?' 

"*Oh,  farin'  along,'  says  he. 

"'Ay,'  says  I;  'but  how  is  you,  b'y  ?* 
25 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"'Farin*  along,'  says  he. 

"  *  It  ain't  a  answer,'  says  I.  '  I'm  askin'  a  plain 
question,  Botch.' 

"'Well,  Tumm,'  says  he,  *the  fac'  is,  Tumm, 
I'm — sort  o' — ^jus' — farin'  along.' 

"We  crossed  the  Straits  of  a  moonlight  night. 
The  wind  was  fair  an'  light.  Mad  Bill  was  t' 
the  wheel:  for  he  'lowed  he  wasn't  goin'  t'  have 
no  chances  took  with  a  Lally  Line  steamer, 
havin*  been  sunk  oncet  by  the  same.  'Twas  a 
kind  an'  peaceful  night.  I've  never  knowed  the 
world  t*  be  more  t'  rest  an'  kinder  t'  the  sons  o' 
men.  The  wind  was  from  the  s'uth'ard,  a  point 
or  two  east:  a  soft  wind  an'  sort  o'  dawdlin'  care- 
less an'  happy  toward  the  Labrador.  The  sea 
was  sound  asleep;  an'  the  schooner  cuddled  up, 
an*  dreamed,  an'  snored,  an'  sighed,  an'  rolled 
along,  as  easy  as  a  ship  could  be.  Moonlight 
was  over  all  the  world — so  soft  an'  sweet  an'  play- 
ful an'  white;  it  said,  'Hush!'  an',  *Go  t'  sleep!' 
All  the  stars  that  ever  shone  was  wide  awake 
an'  winkin'.  A  playful  crew — ^them  little  stars! 
Wink!  wink!  *  Go  t' sleep !' says  they.  "Tis  our 
watch,'  says  they.  '  Well  take  care  o'  you* 
An'  t*  win'ward — far  off — black  an'  low — ^was 
Cape  Norman  o'  Newf'un'land.  Newf'un'land! 
Ah,  we're  all  mad  with  love  o'   she!     *Good- 

26 


THE   WAYFARER 


night!'  says  she.  'Fair  v'y'ge/  says  she;  *an' 
may  you  come  home  loaded!'  Sleep  ?  Ay;  men 
could  sleep  that  night.  They  wasn't  no  fear  at 
sea.  Sleep  ?  Ay;  they  wasn't  no  fear  in  all  the 
moonlit  world. 

"An'  then  up  from  the  forecastle  comes  Botch 
o'  Jug  Cove. 

"'Tumm,'  says  he,  *you  isn't  turned  in.' 

"*No,  Botch,'  says  L  *It  isn't  my  watch; 
but  I  'lowed  I'd  lie  here  on  this  cod -trap  an* 
wink  back  at  the  stars.' 

"'1  can't  sleep,'  says  he.  *Oh,  Tumm,  I 
can  t! 

"  *  'Tis  a  wonderful  fine  night,'  says  I. 

"*Ay,'  says  he;  *but— ' 

"*But  what?'  says  I. 

"'You  never  can  tell,'  says  he 

"*  Never  can  tell  what .?' 

"'What's  goin'  t'  happen.' 

"I  took  one  look — ^just  one  look  into  them 
shiverin'  eyes — an'  shook  my  head.  'Do  you 
'low,'  says  I,  *that  we  can  hit  that  berg  off  the 
port  bow  ?' 

"'You  never  can  tell,'  says  he. 

"'Good  Lord!'  says  I.  'With  Mad  Bill 
Likely  o'  Yellow  Tail  Tickle  at  the  wheel  f 
Botch,'  says  I,  'you're  gone  mad.     What's  come 

27 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

along  o'  you  ?     Where's  the  is  an*  the  was  an* 
the  will  he  ?    What's  come  o'  that  law  o'  life  ?' 

"'Hist!'  says  he. 

"'Not  me!'  says  I.  'I'll  hush  for  no  man. 
What's  come  o'  the  law  o'  life  ^.  What's  come  o' 
all  the  thinkin'  ?' 

"'Tumm,'  says  he,  *I  don't  think  no  more. 
An'  the  laws  o'  life,'  says  he,  '  is  foolishness.  The 
fac'  is,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'things  look  wonderful 
different  t'  me  now.  I  isn't  the  same  as  I  used 
t'  be  in  them  old  days.' 

"'You  isn't  had  a  fever.  Botch  ?'  says  I. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'I  got  religion.' 

"'Oh!'  says  I.     'What  kind.?' 

"'Vi'lent,'  says  he. 
1  see,    says  1. 

"'I  isn't  converted  just  this  minute,'  says  he. 
*  I  'low  you  might  say,  an'  be  near  the  truth,  that 
I'm  a  damned  backslider.  But  I  been  con- 
verted, an'  I  may  be  again.  Fac'  is,  Tumm,' 
says  he,  'when  I  gets  up  in  the  mornin'  I  never 
knows  which  I'm  in,  a  state  o'  grace  or  a  state  o' 
sin.  It  usual  takes  till  after  breakfast  t'  find 
out.' 

" '  Botch,  b'y,'  says  I,  for  it  made  me  feel  awful 
bad,  'don't  you  go  an'  trouble  about  that.' 

"'You  don't  know  about  hell,'  says  he. 
28 


THE   WAYFARER 


"  *  I  does  know  about  hell,'  says  I.  '  My  mother 
told  me.' 

"  *  Ay,'  says  he;  *  she  told  vou.  But  you  doesn't 
know* 

" '  Botch,'  says  I, '  'twould  s'prise  me  if  she  left 
anything  out.' 

"  He  wasn't  happy — Botch  wasn't.  He  begun 
t'  kick  his  heels,  an'  scratch  his  whisps  o'  beard, 
an'  chaw  his  finger-nails.  It  made  me  feel  bad. 
I  didn't  Hke  t'  see  Botch  took  that  way.  I'd 
rather  see  un  crawl  into  nuthin'  an'  think,  ecod! 
than  chaw  his  nails  an'  look  like  a  scared  idjit 
from  the  mad-house  t'  St.  John's. 

"'You  got  a  soul,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

"*I  knows  that,'  says  I. 

"  *  How  V  says  he. 

"*My  mother  told  me.' 

"  Botch  took  a  look  at  the  stars.  An'  so  I,  too, 
took  a  look  at  the  funny  little  things.  An'  the 
stars  is  so  many,  an'  so  wonderful  far  off,  an'  so 
wee  an'  queer  an'  perfeckly  solemn  an'  knowin', 
that  I  'lowed  I  didn't  know  much  about  heaven 
an'  hell,  after  all,  an'  begun  t'  feel  shaky. 

"*I  got  converted,'  says  Botch,  'by  means-of  a 
red-headed  parson  from  the  Cove  o'  the  Easterly 
Winds.  He  knowed  everything.  They  wasn't 
no  why  he  wasn't  able  t'  answer.     "The  glory  o' 

29 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

God,"  says  he;  an'  there  was  an  end  to  it.  An' 
bein'  converted  of  a  suddent,*  says  Botch,  'with- 
out givin'  much  thought  t'  what  might  come  after, 
I  'lowed  the  parson  had  the  rights  of  it.  Any- 
how, I  wasn't  in  no  mood  t'  set  up  my  word 
against  a  real  parson  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  Book 
right  under  his  arm.  I  'lowed  I  wouldn't  stay 
very  long  in  a  state  o'  grace  if  I  done  that.  The 
fac'  is,  he  told  me  so.  "Whatever,"  thinks  I, 
"the  glory  o'  God  does  well  enough,  if  a  man  only 
will  believe;  an'  the  tears  an'  crooked  backs  an' 
hunger  o*  this  here  world,"  thinks  I,  "which  the 
parson  lays  t'  Him,  fits  in  very  well  with  the  reefs 
an'  easterly  gales  He  made."  So  I  'lowed  I'd 
better  take  my  religion  an'  ask  no  questions;  an' 
the  parson  said  'twas  very  wise,  for  I  was  only 
an  ignorant  man,  an'  I'd  reach  a  state  o'  sanc- 
tification  if  I  kep'  on  in  the  straight  an'  narrow 
way.  So  I  went  no  more  t'  the  grounds.  For 
what  was  the  use  o'  goin'  there .?  'Peared  t'  me 
that  heaven  was  my  home.  What's  the  use  o' 
botherin*  about  the  fish  for  the  little  time  we're 
here  ?  I  couldn't  get  my  mind  on  the  fish. 
"Heaven  is  my  home,"  thinks  I,  "an'  I'm  tired, 
an'  I  wants  t'  get  there,  an'  I  don't  want  t'  trouble 
about  the  world."  'Twas  an  immortal  soul  I 
had  t'  look  out  for.     So  I  didn't  think  no  more 

30 


THE   WAYFARER 


about  laws  o*  life.  'Tis  a  sin  t'  pry  into  the 
mysteries  o'  God;  an'  'tis  a  sinful  waste  o'  time, 
anyhow,  t'  moon  about  the  heads,  thinkin'  about 
laws  o'  life  when  you  got  a  immortal  soul  on 
your  hands.  I  wanted  t'  save  that  soul!  An  I 
wants  /'  save  tt  nowT 

"'Well,'  says  I,  *  ain't  it  sove?' 

"*No,'  says  he;  *for  I  couldn't  help  thinkin*. 
An'  when  I  thunk,  Tumm — whenever  I  fell  from 
grace  an'  thunk  real  hard — I  couldn't  believe 
some  o'  the  things  the  red-headed  parson  said  I 
had  t'  believe  if  I  wanted  t'  save  my  soul  from 
hell.' 

"*  Botch,'  says  I,  *  leave  your  soul  be.* 

"*I  can't,'  says  he.  *I  can't!  I  got  a  im- 
mortal soul,  Tumm.  What's  t'  become  o'  that 
there  soul  ?' 

"*  Don't  you  trouble  it,*  says  I.  *  Leave  it  be. 
'Tis  too  tender  t'  trifle  with.  An',  anyhow,'  says 
I,  *a  man's  belly  is  all  he  can  handle  without 
strainin'.' 

"*But  'tis  mine — my  soul!* 

"  *  Leave  it  be,'  says  L     *  It  '11  get  t*  heaven.' 

"Then  Botch  gritted  his  teeth,  an'  clinched 
his  hands,  an'  lifted  his  fists  t'  heaven.  There 
he  stood.  Botch  o'  Jug  Cove,  on  the  for'ard  deck 
o*  the  Three  Sisters,  which  was  built  by  the  hands 

31 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

o*  men,  slippin'  across  the  Straits  t'  the  Labrador, 
in  the  light  o'  the  old,  old  moon — there  stood 
Botch  like  a  man  in  tarture! 

"*I  isn't  sure,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'that  I  wants 
t'  go  t'  heaven.  For  I'd  be  all  the  time  foolin' 
about  the  gates  o'  hell,  peepin'  in,'  says  he;  *an' 
if  the  devils  suffered  in  the  fire — if  they  moaned 
an'  begged  for  the  mercy  o'  God — I'd  be  wantin' 
t'  go  in,  Tumm,  with  a  jug  o'  water  an'  a  pa'm- 
leaf  fan!* 

"'You'd  get  pretty  well  singed,  Botch,'  says  I. 

'"I'd  want  t'  be  singed!'  says  he. 

"'Well,  Botch,'  says  I,  'I  don't  know  where 
you'd  best  lay  your  course  for,  heaven  or  hell. 
But  I  knows,  my  b'y,'  says  I,  'that  you  better 
give  your  soul  a  rest,  or  you'll  be  sorry.' 

"'I  can't,'  says  he. 

"'It  '11  get  t'  one  place  or  t'other,'  says  I,  'if 
you  on'y  bides  your  time.' 

" '  How  do  you  know  ?'  says  he. 

"'Why,'  says  I,  'any  parson  'II  tell  you  so!' 

" '  But  how  do  you  know  ?'  says  he. 

"'Damme,  Botch!'  says  I,  'my  mother  told 
me  so.' 

"'That's  it!'  says  he. 

"'What's  it.?' 

"'Your  mother,'  says  he.  "Tis  all  hearsay 
32 


THE   WAYFARER 


with  you  an'  me.  But  I  wants  t'  know  for  my- 
self. Heaven  or  hell,  damnation  or  salvation, 
God  or  nothin'!'  says  he.  *I  wouldn't  care  if  I 
on'y  knowed.  But  I  don't  know,  an'  can't  find 
out.  I'm  tired  o'  hearsay  an'  guessin',  Tumm. 
I  wants  t'  know.  Dear  God  of  all  men,'  says  he, 
with  his  fists  in  the  air,  */  wants  f  know!' 

"*Easy,'  says  I.  'Easy  there!  Don't  you 
say  no  more.  'Tis  mixin'  t'  the  mind.  So,' 
says  I,  *  I  'low  I'll  turn  in  for  the  night.' 

"Down  I  goes.  But  I  didn't  turn  in.  I 
couldn't — not  just  then.  I  raked  around  in  the 
bottom  o'  my  old  nunny-bag  for  the  Bible  my 
dear  mother  put  there  when  first  I  sot  out  for  the 
Labrador  in  the  Fear  of  the  Lord.  *  I  wants  a 
message,'  thinks  I;  'an'  I  wants  it  bad,  an'  I 
wants  it  almighty  quick!'  An'  I  spread  the 
Book  on  the  forecastle  table,  an'  I  put  my  fin- 
ger down  on  the  page,  an'  I  got  all  my  nerves 
t'gether  —  an  I  looked!  Then  I  closed  the 
Book.  They  wasn't  much  of  a  message;  it 
doney  t'  be  sure,  but  'twasn't  much :  for  that  there 
yarn  o'  Jonah  an'  the  whale  is  harsh  readin'  for 
us  poor  fishermen.  But  I  closed  the  Book,  an' 
wrapped  it  up  again  in  my  mother's  cotton,  an* 
put  it  back  in  the  bottom  o'  my  nunny-bag,  an* 
sighed,  an'  went  on  deck.     An'  I  cotched  poor 

33 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Botch  by  the  throat;  an',  'Botch/  says  I,  *  don't 
you  never  say  no  more  about  souls  t'  me.  Men/ 
says  I,  *is  all  hangin'  on  off  a  lee  shore  in  a  big 
gale  from  the  open;  an'  they  isn't  no  mercy  in 
that  wind.  I  got  my  anchor  down/  says  I. 
*My  fathers  forged  it,  hook  an'  chain,  an'  they 
weathered  it  out,  without  fear  or  favor.  'Tis 
the  on'y  anchor  I  got,  anyhow,  an'  I  don't  want 
it  t'  part.  For  if  it  do,  the  broken  bones  o'  my 
soul  will  lie  slimy  an*  rotten  on  the  reefs  t'  lee- 
ward through  all  eternity.  You  leave  me  be,' 
says  I.   'Don't  you  never  say  soul  t'  me  no  more!' 

"I  'low/'  Tumm  sighed,  while  he  picked  at  a 
knot  in  the  table  with  his  clasp-knife,  "that  if  I 
could  *a'  done  more'n  just  what  mother  teached 
me,  I'd  sure  have  prayed  for  poor  Abraham 
Botch  that  night!" 

He  sighed  again. 

"We  fished  the  Farm  Yard,"  Tumm  con- 
tinued, "an'  Indian  Harbor,  an*  beat  south  into 
Domino  Run;  but  we  didn't  get  no  chance  t'  use 
a  pound  o*  salt  for  all  that.  They  didn't  seem  t' 
be  no  sign  o'  fish  anywheres  on  the  s'uth'ard  or 
middle  coast  o'  the  Labrador.  We  run  here, 
an'  we  beat  there,  an'  we  fluttered  around  like 
a  half-shot  gull;  but  we  didn't  come  up  with  no 

34 


THE  WAYFARER 


fish.  Down  went  the  trap,  an'  up  she  come: 
not  even  a  lumpfish  or  a  lobser  t'  grace  the  labor. 
Winds  in  the  east,  lop  on  the  sea,  fog  in  the  sky, 
ice  in  the  water,  colds  on  the  chest,  boils  on  the 
wrists;  but  nar'  a  fish  in  the  hold!  It  drove 
Mad  Bill  Likely  stark.  *Lads,*  says  he,  *the 
fish  is  north  o'  Mugford.  I'm  goin*  down,'  says 
he,  *  if  we  haves  t'  winter  at  Chidley  on  swile-fat 
an'  sea-weed.  For,'  says  he,  *  Butt  o'  Twillingate, 
which  owns  this  craft,  an'  has  outfitted  every 
man  o'  this  crew,  is  on  his  last  legs,  an'  I'd  rather 
face  the  Lord  in  a  black  shroud  o'  sin  than  tie  up 
t'  the  old  man's  wharf  with  a  empty  hold.  For 
the  Lord  is  used  to  it,'  says  he,  *an'  wouldn't 
mind;  but  Old  Man  Butt  would  cry.^  So  we 
'lowed  we'd  stand  by,  whatever  come  of  it;  an* 
down  north  we  went,  late  in  the  season,  with 
a  rippin'  wind  astern.  An'  we  found  the  fish 
'long  about  Kidalick;  an'  we  went  at  it,  night  an* 
day,  an'  loaded  in  a  fortnight.  *An'  now,  lads,' 
says  Mad  Bill  Likely,  when  the  decks  was  awash, 
*you  can  all  go  t'  sleep,  an'  be  jiggered  t'  you!* 
An*  down  I  dropped  on  the  last  stack  o*  green, 
cod,  an'  slep'  for  more  hours  than  I  dast  tell  you. 

"Then  we  started  south. 

"*Tumm,'    says    Botch,   when   we   was   well 
underway,  'we're  deep.     We're  awful  deep.* 

35 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"'But  it  ain't  salt,'  says  I;  "tis  fish.' 
"*Ay,'  says  he;  'but  'tis  all  the  same  t'  the 
schooner.  We'll  have  wind,  an'  she'll  complain.' 
"We  coaxed  her  from  harbor  t'  harbor  so  far 
as  Indian  Tickle.  Then  we  got  a  fair  wind,  an' 
Mad  Bill  Likely  'lowed  he'd  make  a  run  for  it  t' 
the  northern  ports  o'  the  French  Shore.  We  was 
well  out  an'  doin'  well  when  the  wind  switched  t' 
the  sou'east.  'Twas  a  beat,  then;  an'  the  poor 
old  Three  Sisters  didn't  like  it,  an'  got  tired,  an' 
wanted  t'  give  up.  By  dawn  the  seas  was  comin' 
over  the  bow  at  will.  The  old  girl  simply  couldn't 
keep  her  head  up.  She'd  dive,  an'  nose  in,  an* 
get  smothered;  an'  she  shook  her  head  so  pitiful 
that  Mad  Bill  Likely  'lowed  he'd  ease  her  for'ard, 
an'  see  how  she'd  like  it.  'Twas  broad  day  when 
he  sent  me  an'  Abraham  Botch  o'  Jug  Cove 
out  t'  stow  the  stays'l.  They  wasn't  no  fog  on 
the  face  o'  the  sea;  but  the  sky  was  gray  an' 
troubled,  an'  the  sea  was  a  wrathful  black-an'- 
white,  an'  the  rain,  whippin'  past,  stung  what  it 
touched,  an'  froze  t'  the  deck  an'  riggin'.  I 
knowed  she'd  put  her  nose  into  the  big  white  seas, 
an'  I  knowed  Botch  an'  me  would  go  under, 
an'  I  knowed  the  foothold  was  slippery  with  ice; 
so  I  called  the  fac's  t'  Botch's  attention,  an' 
asked  un  not  t'  think  too  much. 

36 


THE   WAYFARER 


"'I've  give  that  up,'  says  he. 

"*Well,'  says  I,  'you  might  get  another  at- 
tackt.' 

"'No  fear,'  says  he;  "tis  fooHshness  t'  think. 
It  don't  come  t'  nothin'.' 

"'But  you  might,'  says  I. 

"'Not  in  a  moment  o'  grace,'  says  he.  'An*, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  'at  this  instant,  my  condition,' 
says  he,  'is  one  o'  salvation.' 

"'Then,'  says  I,  'you  follow  me,  an'  we'll  do 
a  tidy  job  with  that  there  stays'l.' 

"An'  out  on  the  jib-boom  we  went.  We'd 
pretty  near  finished  the  job  when  the  Three 
Sisters  stuck  her  nose  into  a  thundering  sea. 
When  she  shook  that  off,  I  yelled  t'  Botch  t'  look 
out  for  two  more.  If  he  heard,  he  didn't  say  so; 
he  was  too  busy  spittin'  salt  water.  We  was  still 
there  when  the  second  sea  broke.  But  when  the 
third  fell,  an'  my  eyes  was  shut,  an'  I  was  grip- 
pin'  the  boom  for  dear  life,  I  felt  a  clutch  on  my 
ankle;  an'  the  next  thing  I  knowed  I  was  draggin* 
in  the  water,  with  a  grip  on  the  bobstay,  an' 
something  tuggin'  at  my  leg  like  a  whale  on  a 
fish-line.  I  knowed  'twas  Botch,  without  lookin',  < 
for  it  couldn't  be  nothin'  else.  An'  when  I  look- 
ed, I  seed  un  lyin'  in  the  foam  at  the  schooner's 
bow,  bobbin'  under  an'  up.     His  head  was  on  a 

37 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

pillow  o'  froth,  an'  his  legs  was  swingin'  in  a  green, 
bubblish  swirl  beyond. 

"'Holdfast!'  I  yelled. 

"The  hiss  an'  swish  o'  the  seas  was  hellish. 
Botch  spat  water  an'  spoke,  but  I  couldn't  hear. 
I  Mowed,  though,  that  'twas  whether  I  could  keep 
my  grip  a  bit  longer. 

"'Hold  fast!' says  I. 

"  He  nodded  a  most  agreeable  thank  you.  *  I 
wants  t'  think  a  minute,'  says  he. 

"'Take  both  hands!'  says  I. 

"On  deck  they  hadn't  missed  us  yet.  The 
rain  was  thick  an'  sharp-edged,  an'  the  schooner's 
bow  was  forever  in  a  mist  o'  spray. 

"'Tumm!'  says  Botch. 

"'Hold  fast!' says  I. 

"  He'd  hauled  his  head  out  o'  the  froth.  They 
wasn't  no  trouble  in  his  eyes  no  more.  His  eyes 
was  clear  an'  deep — ^with  a  little  laugh  lyin'  far 
down  in  the  depths. 

"'Tumm,*  says  he,  *I — ' 

"'I  don't  hear,'  says  I. 

" '  I  can't  wait  no  longer,'  says  he.  '  I  wants  t* 
know.  An*  Tm  so  near,  now,'  says  he,  'that  I 
'low  I'll  just  find  out.' 

■  ■'Hold  fast,  you  fool!'  says  I. 

**I  swear  by  the  God  that  made  me,**  Tumm 
38 


THE   WAYFARER 


declared,  "that  he  was  smiHn'  the  last  I  seed  of 
his  face  in  the  foam!  He  wanted  t'  know — an* 
he  found  out!  But  I  wasn't  quite  so  curious," 
Tumm  added,  "an'  I  hauled  my  hulk  out  o'  the 
water,  an'  climbed  aboard.  An'  I  run  aft;  but 
they  wasn't  nothin'  t'  be  seed  but  the  big,  black 
sea,  an'  the  froth  o'  the  schooner's  wake  and  o' 
the  wild  white  horses." 

The  story  was  ended. 

A  tense  silence  was  broken  by  a  gentle  snore 
from  the  skipper  of  the  Good  Samaritan.  I  turn- 
ed. The  head  of  the  lad  from  the  Cove  o'  First 
Cousins  protruded  from  his  bunk.  It  was  with- 
drawn on  the  instant.  But  I  had  caught  sight 
of  the  drooping  eyes  and  of  the  wide,  flaring 
nostrils. 

'-  "  See  that,  sir .?"  Tumm  asked,  with  a  back- 
ward nod  toward  the  boy's  bunk. 

I  nodded. 

"Same  old  thing,"  he  laughed,  sadly.  "Goes 
on  t'  the  end  o'  the  world." 

We  all  know  that. 


II 

A   MATTER    OF    EXPEDIENCY 

SURE  enough,  old  man  Jowl  came  aboard 
the  Good  Samaritan  at  Mad  Tom's  Harbor 
to  trade  his  fish — a  lean,  leathery  old  fellow  in 
white  moleskin,  with  skin  boots,  tied  below  the 
knees,  and  a  cloth  cap  set  decorously  on  a  bushy 
head.  The  whole  was  as  clean  as  a  clothes-pin; 
and  the  punt  was  well  kept,  and  the  fish  white 
and  dry  and  sweet  to  smell,  as  all  Newfound- 
land cod  should  be.  Tumrn's  prediction  that  he 
would  not  smile  came  true;  his  long  countenance 
had  no  variation  of  expression — tough,  brown, 
delicately  wrinkled  skin  lying  upon  immobile 
flesh.  His  face  was  glurn  of  cast — drawn  at  the 
brows,  thin-lipped,  still;  but  yet  with  an  abun- 
dant and  incongruously  benignant  white  beard 
which  might  have  adorned  a  prophet.  For 
Jim  Bull's  widow  he  made  way;  she,  said  he, 
must  have  his  turn  at  the  scales  and  in  the  cabin, 

40 


A   MATTER    OF    EXPEDIENCY 

for  she  had  a  baby  to  nurse,  and  was  pressed  for 
opportunity.  This  was  tenderness  beyond  ex- 
ample— generous  and  acute.  A  clean,  pious, 
gentle  old  fellow:  he  was  all  that,  it  may  be;  but 
he  had  eyes  to  disquiet  the  sanctified,  who  are  not 
easily  disturbed.  They  were  not  blue,  but  black 
with  a  blue  film,  like  the  eyes  of  an  old  wolf — 
cold,  bold,  patient,  watchful — calculating;  hav- 
ing no  sympathy,  but  a  large  intent  to  profit,  ul- 
timately, whatever  the  cost.  Tumm  had  bade 
me  look  Jowl  in  the  eye;  and  to  this  day  I  have 
not  forgotten.  .  .  . 

The  Good  Samaritan  was  out  of  Mad  Tortl's 
Harbor,  bound  across  the  bay,  after  dark,  to 
trade  the  ports  of  the  shore.  It  was  a  quiet  night 
— starlit:  the  wind  light  and  fair.  The  clerk 
and  the  skipper  and  I  had  the  forecastle  of  the 
schooner  to  ourselves. 

"I  'low,"  Tumm  mused,  "/  wouldn't  want  t' 
grow  old," 

The  skipper  grinned. 

"Not,"  Tumm  added,  "on  this  coast.'* 

"Ah,  well,  Tumm,"  the  skipper  jeered,  "may-, 
be  you  won't!" 

"I'd  be  ashamed,"  said  Tumm. 

"You  dunderhead!"  snapped  the  skipper,  who 
41 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

was  old,  "on  this  coast  an  old  man's  a  man! 
He've  lived  through  enough,"  he  growled,  "t* 
show  it." 

"'Tis  accordin',"  said  Tumm. 

"To  what?"  I  asked. 

"T'  how  you  looks  at  it.  In  a  mess,  now — 
you  take  it  in  a  nasty  mess,  when  'tis  every  man 
for  hisself  an'  the  devil  take  the  hindmost — in  a 
mess  like  that,  I  'low,  the  devil  often  gets  the 
man  o'  the  party,  an'  the  swine  goes  free.  But 
*tis  all  just  accordin'  t'  how  you  looks  at  it;  an* 
as  for  my  taste,  I'd  be  ashamed  t'  come  through 
fifty  year  o'  life  on  this  coast  alive." 

"Ay,  b'y  ?"  the  skipper  inquired,  with  a  curl 
of  the  lip. 

"It  wouldn't  look  right,"  drawled  Tumm. 

The  skipper  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"Now,"  said  Tumm,  "you  take  the  case  o'  old 
man  Jowl  o'  Mad  Tom's  Harbor — " 

"Excuse  me,  Tumm  b'y,"  the  skipper  in- 
terrupted. "If  you're  goin'  t*  crack  off,  just  bide 
a  spell  till  I  gets  on  deck." 

Presently  we  heard  his  footsteps  going  aft.  .  .  . 

"A  wonderful  long  time  ago,  sir,"  Tumm  be- 
gan, "when  Jowl  was  in  his  prime  an'  I  was  a 
lad,  we  was  shipped  for  the  Labrador  aboard  the 

42 


A   MATTER    OF    EXPEDIENCY 

Wings  o'  the  Mornin.  She  was  a  thirty-ton  fore- 
an'-after,  o'  Tuggleby's  build — Tuggleby  o'  Dog 
Harbor  —  haihn'  from  Witch  Cove,  an'  bound 
down  t'  the  Wayward  Tickles,  with  a  fair  inten- 
tion o*  takin'  a  look-in  at  Run-by-Guess  an* 
Ships'  Graveyard,  t'  the  nor'ard  o'  Mugford,  if 
the  Tickles  was  bare.  Two  days  out  from  Witch 
Cove,  somewheres  off  Gull  Island,  an'  a  bit  t'  the 
sou'west,  we  was  cotched  in  a  switch  o'  weather. 
'Twas  a  nor'east  blow,  mixed  with  rain  an'  hail; 
an'  in  the  brewin'  it  kep'  us  guessin'  what  'twould 
accomplish  afore  it  got  tired,  it  looked  so  lusty 
an'  devilish.  The  skipper  'lowed  'twould  trouble 
some  stomachs,  whatever  else,  afore  we  got  out 
of  it,  for  'twas  the  first  v'y'ge  o'  that  season  for 
every  man  Jack  o'  the  crew.  An'  she  blowed, 
an'  afore  mornin'  she'd  tear  your  hair  out  by  the 
roots  if  you  took  off  your  cap,  an'  the  sea  was 
white  an'  the  day  was  black.  The  Wings  o' 
the  Mornin  done  well  enough  for  forty-eight 
hours,  an'  then  she  lost  her  grit  an'  quit.  Three 
seas  an'  a  gust  o'  wind  crumpled  her  up.  She 
come  out  of  it  a  wreck  —  topmast  gone,  spars 
shivered,  gear  in  a  tangle,  an'  deck  swep'  clean. 
Still  an'  all,  she  behaved  like  a  lady;  she  kep' 
her  head  up,  so  well  as  she  was  able,  till  a  big 
sea  snatched  her  rudder;  an'  then  she  breathed 

43 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

her  last,  an'  begun  t'  roll  under  our  feet,  dead  as 
a  log.     So  we  went  below  t'  have  a  cup  o'  tea. 

"'Don't  spare  the  rations,  cook,'  says  the 
skipper.     'Might  as  well  go  with  full  beUies.' 

"The  cook  got  sick  t'  oncet. 

***You  lie  down,  cook,'  says  the  skipper,  *an' 
leave  me  do  the  cookin'.  Will  you  drown  where 
you  is,  cook,'  says  he,  '  or  on  deck .?' 

"*On  deck,  sir,'  says  the  cook. 

"Til  call  you,  b'y,'  says  the  skipper. 

"Afore  long  the  first  hand  give  up  an'  got  in 
his  berth.  He  was  wonderful  sad  when  he  got 
tucked  away.    'Lowed  somebody  might  hear  of  it. 

"'You  want  t'  be  called,  Billy?'  says  the 
skipper. 

"'Ay,  sir;  please,  sir,'  says  the  first  hand. 

"'All  right,  Billy,'  says  the  skipper.  'But 
you  won't  care  enough  t*  get  out.' 

"The  skipper  was  next. 

"*Tou  goin',  tool'  says  Jowl. 

"'You'll  have  t'  eat  it  raw,  lads,*  says  the 
skipper,  with  a  white  little  grin  at  hisself.  *An' 
don't  rouse  me,'  says  he,  'for  I'm  as  good  as 
dead  already.' 

"The  second  hand  come  down  an'  'lowed  we'd 
better  get  the  pumps  goin'. 

"  *  She's  sprung  a  leak  somewheres  aft,'  says  he. 
44 


A   MATTER    OF    EXPEDIENCY 

Jowl  an'  me  an'  the  second  hand  went  on 
deck  t'  keep  her  afloat.  The  second  hand  'lowed 
she'd  founder,  anyhow,  if  she  was  give  time,  but 
he'd  Hke  t'  see  what  would  come  o'  pumpin',  just 
for  devilment.  So  we  lashed  ourselves  handy  an' 
pumped  away — me  an'  the  second  hand  on  one 
side  an'  Jowl  on  the  other.  The  fFings  o'  the 
Mornin  wobbled  an'  dived  an'  shook  herself  like 
a  wet  dog;  all  she  wanted  was  a  little  more  water 
in  her  hold  an'  then  she'd  make  an  end  of  it, 
whenever  she  happened  t'  take  the  notion. 

"Tm  give  out,'  says  the  second  hand,  afore 
night. 

"*Them  men  in  the  forecastle  isn't  treatin* 
us  right,'  says  Jowl.  *They  ought  t'  lend  a 
hand.' 

"The  second  hand  bawled  down  t'  the  crew; 
but  nar  a  man  would  come  on  deck. 

"'Jowl,'  says  he,  *you  have  a  try.* 

"Jowl  went  down  an'  complained;  but  it  didn't 
do  no  good.  They  was  all  so  sick  they  wouldn't 
answer.  So  the  second  hand  'lowed  he'd  go 
down  an'  argue,  which  he  foolishly  done — an', 
never  come  back.  An'  when  I  went  below  t' 
rout  un  out  of  it,  he  was  stowed  away  in  his  bunk, 
all  out  o'  sorts  an'  wonderful  melancholy.  *  Isn't 
no  use,  Tumm,'  says  he.     *  It  isn't  no  use.' 

45 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"'Get  out  o'  this!'  says  the  cook.  'You  woke 
me  up!' 

"I  'lowed  the  forecastle  air  wouldn't  be  long 
about  persuadin'  me  to  the  first  hand's  sinful  way 
o'  thinkin'.  An'  when  I  got  on  deck  the  gale 
tasted  sweet. 

"  *  They  isn't  treatin  us  right,'  says  Jowl. 

"*I  'low  you're  right,'  says  I,  'but  what  you 
goin'  t'  do?* 

"'What  you  think  ?'  says  he. 

"*Pump,'  says  I. 

"'Might's  well,'  says  he.     'She's  fiUin'  up.' 

"We  kep'  pumpin'  away,  steady  enough,  till 
dawn,  which  fagged  us  wonderful.  The  way 
she  rolled  an'  pitched,  an'  the  way  the  big  white, 
sticky,  frosty  seas  broke  over  us,  an'  the  way  the 
wind  pelted  us  with  rain  an'  hail,  an'  the  black- 
ness o'  the  sky,  was  mean — ^just  almighty  careless 
an'  mean.  An'  pumpin'  didn't  seem  t'  do  no 
good;  for  why  ^  we  couldn't  save  the  hulk — not  us 
two.  As  it  turned  out,  if  the  crew  had  been  fitted 
out  with  men's  stomachs  we  might  have  weather- 
ed it  out,  an'  gone  down  the  Labrador,  an'  got 
a  load;  for  every  vessel  that  got  there  that  season 
come  home  fished  t'  the  gunwales.  But  we  didn't 
know  it  then.  Jowl  growled  all  night  to  hisself 
about  the  way  we  was  treated.     The  wind  carried 

46 


A    MATTER   OF    EXPEDIENCY 

most  o'  the  blasphemy  out  t'  sea,  where  they 
wasn't  no  lad  t'  corrupt,  an'  at  scattered  times  a 
big  sea  would  make  Jowl  splutter,  but  I  beared 
enough  t'  make  me  smell  the  devil,  an'  when  I 
seed  Jowl's  face  by  the  first  light  I  'lowed  his 
angry  feelin's  had  riz  to  a  ridiculous  extent,,  so 
that  they  was  something  more'n  the  weather  gone 
wild  in  my  whereabouts. 

"'What's  gone  along  o'  you  .?'  says  I. 

"  *  The  swine !'  says  he.  *  Come  below,  Tumm,* 
says  he,  *  an'  we'll  give  un  a  dose  o'  fists  an'  feet.* 

"  So  down  we  went,  an'  we  had  the  whole  crew 
in  a  heap  on  the  forecastle  floor  afore  they  woke 
up.  Ecod!  what  a  mess  o'  green  faces!  A 
per-feck-ly  limp  job  lot  o'  humanity!  Not  a  back- 
bone among  un.  An'  all  on  account  o'  their 
stomachs!  It  made  me  sick  an'  mad  t'  see  un. 
The  cook  was  the  worst  of  un;  said  we'd  gone  an' 
woke  un  up,  just  when  he'd  got  t'  sleep  an'  forgot 
it  all.  Good  Lord!  *You  gone  an' made  me 
remember!'  says  he.  At  that.  Jowl  let  un  have 
it;  but  the  cook  only  yelped  an'  crawled  back  in 
his  bunk,  wipin'  the  blood  from  his  chin.  For 
twenty  minutes  an'  more  we  labored  with  them 
sea-sick  sailors,  with  fists  an'  feet,  as  Jowl  had 
prescribed.  They  wasn't  no  mercy  begged  nor 
showed.     We  hit  what  we  seen,  pickin'  the  tender 

47 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

places  with  care,  an' they  grunted  an' crawled  back 
like  rats;  an'  out  they  come  again,  head  foremost 
or  feet,  as  happened.  I  never  seed  the  like  of  it. 
You  could  treat  un  most  scandalous,  an'  they'd 
do  nothin'  but  whine  an'  crawl  away.  'Twas 
enough  t'  disgust  you  with  your  own  flesh  an' 
bones!  Jowl  'lowed  he'd  cure  the  skipper,  what- 
ever come  of  it,  an'  laid  his  head  open  with  a  birch 
billet.  The  skipper  didn't  whimper  no  more,  but 
just  fell  back  in  the  bunk,  an'  lied  still.  Jowl 
said  he'd  be  cured  when  he  come  to.  Maybe  he 
was;  but  'tis  my  own  opinion  that  Jowl  killed  un, 
then  an'  there,  an'  that  he  never  did  come  to. 
Whatever,  'twas  all  lost  kbor;  we  didn't  work  a 
single  cure,  an'  we  had  t'  make  a  run  for  the  deck, 
all  of  a  sudden,  t'  make  oeace  with  our  own 
stomachs. 

"'The  swine!*  says  Jowl.     'Let  un  drown!' 

"I  Mowed  we'd  better  pump;  but  Jowl  wouldn't 
heir  to  it.  Not  he!  No  sir!  He'd  see  the 
whole  herd  o'  pigs  sunk  afore  he'd  turn  a  finger! 

"'Me  pump!'  says  he. 

"'You  better,'  says  L 

"'For  what?' 

"  *  For  your  life,'  says  L 

"'An'  save  them  swine  in  the  forecastle  ?'  says 
he*     'Not  mel' 

48 


A   MATTER    OF   EXPEDIENCY 

"I  'lowed  it  didn't  matter,  anyhow,  for  'twas 
only  a  question  o'  keepin'  the  Wings  o'  the 
Mornin  out  o'  the  grave  for  a  spell  longer  than 
she  might  have  stayed  of  her  own  notion.  But, 
thinks  I,  I'll  pump,  whatever,  t'  pass  time;  an* 
so  I  set  to,  an'  kep'  at  it.  The  wind  was  real 
vicious,  an'  the  seas  was  breakin'  over  us,  fore  an' 
aft  an'  port  an'  starboard,  t'  suit  their  fancy,  an' 
the  wreck  o'  the  Wings  o'  the  Mornin  wriggled 
an'  bounced  in  a  way  t'  s'prise  the  righteous,  an' 
the  black  sky  was  pourin'  buckets  o'  rain  an' 
hail  on  all  the  world,  an'  the  wind  was  makin' 
knotted  whips  o'  both.  It  wasn't  agreeable,  an' 
by-an'-by  my  poor  brains  was  fair  riled  t'  see  the 
able-bodied  Jowl  with  nothin'  t'  do  but  dodge 
the  seas  an'  keep  hisself  from  bein'  pitched  over- 
board. 'Twas  a  easy  berth  he  had!  But  /  was 
busy, 

"'Look  you.  Jowl,'  sings  I,  *you  better  take 
a  spell  at  the  pump.' 
Me  V  says  he. 

"*Yes,  your 

"*Ohno!'sayshe. 

"'You  think  I'm  goin'  t'  do  all  this  labor  single- 
handed  V  says  I. 

""Tis  your  own  notion,'  says  he. 

"  *  I'll  see  you  sunk,  Jowl !'  says  I,  *  afore  I 
49 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

pumps  another  stroke.  If  you  wants  t'  drown 
afore  night  I'll  not  hinder.  Oh  no,  Mister  Jowl!' 
says  I.     '  I'll  not  be  standin'  in  your  light.' 

"'Tumrn,*  says  he,  *I  got  a  idea.' 

"'Dear  man!'  says  I. 

"'The  wind's  moderatin','  says  he,  *an'  it 
won't  be  long  afore  the  sea  gets  civil.  But 
the  Wings  o  the  Mornin  won't  float  overlong. 
She've  been  settlin'  hasty  for  the  last  hour.  Still 
an'  all,  I  'low  I  got  time  t'  make  a  raft,  which 
I'll  do.' 

"'Look!'  says  I. 

"Off  near  where  the  sun  was  settin'  the  clouds 
broke.  *Twas  but  a  slit,  but  it  let  loose  a  flood 
o'  red  light.  'Twas  a  bloody  sky  an'  sea — red 
as  shed  blood,  but  full  o'  the  promise  o'  peace 
which  follows  storm,  as  the  good  God  directs. 

"*I  'low,'  says  he,  'the  wind  will  go  down 
with  the  sun.' 

"The  vessel  was  makin'  heavy  labor  of  it. 
*I  bets  you,'  says  I,  'the  Wings  o  the  Mornin 
beats  un  both.' 

"'Time '11  tell,' says  he. 

"I  give  un  a  hand  with  the  raft.  An'  hard 
work  'twas;  never  knowed  no  harder,  before  nor 
since,  with  the  seas  comin'  overside,  an'  the  deck 
pitchin'  like  mad,  an'  the  night  droppin'  down. 

50 


A   MATTER   OF   EXPEDIENCY 

Ecod!  but  I  isn't  able  t'  tell  you.  I  forgets  what 
we  done  in  the  red  light  o'  that  day.  'Twas 
labor  for  giants  an'  devils!  But  we  had  the  raft 
in  the  water  afore  dark,  ridin'  in  the  lee,  off  the 
hulk.  It  didn't  look  healthy,  an'  was  by  no 
means  invitin';  but  the  Wings  o  the  Mornin  was 
about  t'  bow  an'  retire,  if  the  signs  spoke  true, 
an'  the  raft  was  the  only  hope  in  all  the  brutal 
world.  I  took  kindly  t'  the  crazy  thing — I  'low  I 
did! 

"*Tumm,'  says  Jowl,  *I  'low  you  thinks  you 
got  some  rights  in  that  raft.' 

"'I  do,'  says  I. 

"'But  you  isn't,'  says  he.  'You  isn't,  Tumm, 
because  I'm  a  sight  bigger  'n  you,  an'  could  put 
you  off.  It  isn't  in  my  mind  t'  do  it — but  I 
could.  I  wants  company,  Tumm,  for  it  looks 
like  a  long  v'y'ge,  an'  I'm  'lowin'  t'  have  you.' 

"'What  about  the  crew  ?'  says  I. 

"'They  isn't  room  for  more'n  two  on  that  raft,' 
says  he. 

"'Dear  God!  Jowl,'  says  I,  'what  you  goin' 
t'  do  ?' 

"'I'm  goin'  t'  try  my  level  best,'  says  he,  *t' 
get  home  t'  my  wife  an'  kid;  for  they'd  be  won- 
derful disappointed  if  I  didn't  turn  up.' 

"  *  But  the  crew's  got  wives  an'  kids !'  says  I. 
51 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"'An'  bad  stomachs,'  says  he. 

"'Jowl,'  says  I,  'she's  sinkin'  fast.' 

'"Then  I  'low  we  better  make  haste.' 

"I  started  for'ard. 

"'Tumm,'  says  he,  'don't  you  go  another  step. 
If  them  swine  in  the  forecastle  knowed  they  Was 
a  raft  'longside,  they'd  steal  it.  It  won't  hold  un, 
Tumm.  It  won't  hold  more'n  two,  an',  ecod!' 
says  he,  with  a  look  at  the  raft,  'I'm  doubtin' 
that  she's  able  for  that!' 

"It  made  me  shiver. 

*"No,  sir!'  says  he.  'I  'low  she  won't  hold 
more'n  one.' 

"*Oh  yes,  she  will.  Jowl!'  says  I.  'Dear  man! 
yes;  she's  able  for  two.' 

"'Maybe,'  says  he. 

"'Handy!'  says  I.     'Oh,  handy,  man!' 

'"We'll  try,'  says  he,  'whatever  comes  of  it. 
An'  if  she  makes  bad  weather,  why,  you  can — ' 

"He  stopped. 

" '  Why  don't  you  say  the  rest  V  says  I. 

"'I  hates  to.' 

'"What  do  you  mean  ?'  says  I. 

"'Why,  damme!  Tumm,'  says  he,  *I  mean 
that  you  can  get  off.     What  else  would  I  mean  ?' 

"Lord!     I  didn't  know! 

"'Well.?'  says  he. 

52 


A   MATTER   OF    EXPEDIENCY 

"*It  ain't  very  kind,'  says  I. 

"'What  would  you  do,'  says  he,  *if  you  was 
me?' 

"  I  give  un  a  look  that  told  un,  an'  'twas  against 
my  will  I  done  it. 

"*Well,'  says  he,  'you  can't  blame  me,  then.' 

"No  more  I  could. 

"'Now  I'll  get  the  grub  from  the  forecastle, 
lad,'  says  he,  'an'  we'll  cast  off.  The  Wings  o' 
the  Mornin  isn't  good  for  more'n  half  an  hour 
more.  You  bide  on  deck,  Tumm,  an'  leave  the 
swine  t'  me.' 

Then  he  went  below. 

"'AH  right,'  says  he,  when  he  come  on  deck. 
'Haul  in  the  line.'  We  lashed  a  water-cask  an' 
a  grub-box  t'  the  raft.  'Now,  Tumm,'  says  he, 
'we  can  take  it  easy.  We  won't  be  in  no  haste 
t'  leave,  for  I  'low  'tis  more  comfortable  here. 
Looks  t'  me  like  more  moderate  weather.  I 
feels  pretty  good,  Tumm,  with  all  the  work  done, 
an'  nothin'  t'  do  but  get  aboard.'  He  sung  the 
long-metre  doxology.  'Look  how  the  wind's 
dropped!'  says  he.  'Why,  lad,  we  might  have 
saved  the  Wings  o  the  Mornin  if  them  pigs  had 
done  their  dooty  last  night.  But  'tis  too  late 
now — an'  it's  been  too  late  all  day  long.  We'll 
have  a  spell  o'  quiet,'  says  he,  'when  the  sea  goes 

53 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

down.  Looks  t'  me  like  the  v'y'ge  might  be 
pleasant,  once  we  gets  through  the  night.  I  'low 
the  stars  '11  be  peepin'  afore  mornin'.  It  '11  be  a 
comfort  t'  see  the  little  mites.  I  loves  t'  know 
they're  winkin'  overhead.  They  makes  me  think 
o'  God.  You  isn't  got  a  top-coat,  is  you,  lad  ?" 
says  he.  'Well,  you  better  get  it,  then.  I'll 
trust  you  in  the  forecastle,  Tumm,  for  I  knows 
you  wouldn't  wrong  me,  an'  you'll  need  that  top- 
coat bad  afore  we're  picked  up.  An'  if  you  got 
your  mother's  Bible  in  your  nunny-bag,  or  any- 
thing like  that  you  wants  t'  save,  you  better  fetch 
it,'  says  he.  'I  'low  we'll  get  out  o'  this  mess, 
an'  we  don't  want  t'  have  anything  t'  regret.* 

"I  got  my  mother's  Bible. 

"'Think  we  better  cast  off?'  says  he. 

"I  did.  The  Wings  o  the  Mornin  was  ridin* 
too  low  an'  easy  for  me  t'  rest;  an'  the  wind  had 
fell  to  a  soft  breeze,  an'  they  wasn't  no  more  rain, 
an'  no  more  dusty  spray,  an'  no  more  breakin' 
waves.  They  was  a  shade  on  the  sea — the  first 
shadow  o'  the  night — ^t'  hide  what  we'd  leave  behind. 

"*We  better  leave  her,'  says  I. 

"*Then  all  aboard!'  says  he. 

"An'  we  got  aboard,  an*  cut  the  cable,  an' 
slipped  away  on  a  soft,  black  sea,  far  into  the 
night.  .  .  .  An'  no  man  ever  seed  the  Wings  o' 

54 


A    MATTER    OF    EXPEDIENCY 

the  Mornin  again.  .  .  .  An'  me  an  Jowl  was  pick- 
ed up,  half  dead  o'  thirst  an'  starvation,  twelve 
days  later,  by  ol'  Cap'n  Loop,  o'  the  Black 
Bay  mail-boat,  as  she  come  around  Toad  Point, 
bound  t'  Burnt  Harbor.  .  .  . 

"Jowl  an'  me,"  Tumm  resumed,  "fished  the 
Holy  Terror  Tickles  o'  the  Labrador  in  the  Got 
It  nex'  season.  He  was  a  wonderful  kind  man. 
Jowl  was — so  pious,  an'  soft  t'  speak,  an'  honest, 
an'  willin'  for  his  labor.  At  midsummer  I  got  a 
bad  hand,  along  of  a  cut  with  the  splittin'-knife, 
an'  nothin'  would  do  Jowl  but  he'd  lance  it,  an' 
wash  it,  an'  bind  it,  Hke  a  woman,  an'  do  so  much 
o*  my  labor  as  he  was  able  for,  like  a  man.  I 
fair  got  t'  like  that  lad  o'  his — though  'twas  but  a 
young  feller  t'  home,  at  the  time — for  Jowl  was 
forever  talkin'  o'  Toby  this  an'  Toby  that — not 
boastful  gabble,  but  just  tender  an'  nice  t'  hear. 
An'  a  fine  lad,  by  all  accounts:  a  dutiful  lad,  brave 
an'  strong,  if  given  overmuch  t'  yieldin'  the  road 
t'  save  trouble,  as  Jowl  said.  I  'lowed,  one 
night,  when  the  Got  It  was  bound  home,  with  all 
the  load  the  salt  would  give  her,  that  I'd  sort  o' 
like  t'  know  the  lad  that  Jowl  had. 

" '  Why  don't  you  fetch  un  down  the  Labrador  ?* 
says  L 

5  55 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"*His  schoolin','  says  Jowl. 

*"Ohr  says  I. 

"*Ay,'  says  he;  'his  mother's  wonderful  par- 
ticular about  the  schoolin'.' 

"'Anyhow,'  says  I,  'the  schooHn'  won't  go  on 
for  all  time.' 

"'No,'  says  Jowl,  'it  won't.  An'  I'm  'lowin' 
t'  harden  Toby  up  a  bit  nex*  spring.' 

"'T' the  ice.?' says  I. 

"*Ay,*  says  he;  'if  I  can  overcome  his  mother.' 

" '  'Tis  a  rough  way  t'  break  a  lad,'  says  I. 

"'So  much  the  better,'  says  he.  'It  don't  take 
so  long.  Nothin'  like  a  sealin'  v'y'ge,'  says  he, 
*t'  harden  a  lad.  An'  if  you  comes  along, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  *why,  I  won't  complain.  I'm 
'lowin' t'  ship  with  Skipper  Tommy  Jump  o'  the 
Second  t'  None.  She's  a  tight  schooner,  o'  the 
Tiddle  build,  an'  I  'low  Tommy  Jump  will  get  a 
load  o'  fat,  whatever  comes  of  it.  You  better 
join,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'an'  we'll  all  be  t'gether. 
I'm  wantin'  you  t'  get  acquainted  with  Toby,  an' 
lend  a  hand  with  his  education,  which  you  can  do 
t'  the  queen's  taste,  bein'  near  of  his  age.' 

'"I'll  do  it,  Jowl,' says  I. 

"An'  I  done  it;  an'  afore  we  was  through,  I 
wisht  I  hadn't." 

Tumm  paused. 

56 


A   MATTER   OF   EXPEDIENCY 

"An'  I  done  it — nex'  March — shipped  along 
o'  Tommy  Jump  o'  the  Second  f  Noney  with 
Jowl  an'  his  lad  aboard,"  he  proceeded. 

"*You  overcome  the  wife,'  says  I,  *  didn't 
you  ?' 

"*'Twas  a  tough  job,'  says  he.  'She  'lowed 
the  boy  might  come  t'  harm,  an'  wouldn't  give  un 
up;  but  me  an'  Toby  pulled  t'gether,  an'  managed 
her,  the  day  afore  sailin'.  She  cried  a  wonderful 
lot;  but.  Lord!  that's  only  the  way  o'  women.' 

"A  likely  lad  o'  sixteen,  this  Toby — blue-eyed 
an'  fair,  with  curly  hair  an'  a  face  full  o'  blush- 
es. Polite  as  a  girl,  which  is  much  too  polite  for 
safety  at  the  ice.  He'd  make  way  for  them  that 
blustered;  but  he  done  it  with  such  an  air  that  we 
wasn't  no  more'n  off  the  Goggles  afore  the  whole 
crew  was  all  makin'  way  for  he.  So  I  'lowed  he'd 
do — ^that  he'd  be  took  care  of,  just  for  love.  But 
Jowl  wasn't  o'  my  mind. 

"'No,'  says  he;  'the  lad's  too  soft.  He've  got 
t'  be  hardened.' 

"'Maybe,'  says  I. 

"'If  anything  happened,'  says  he,  'Toby 
wouldn't  stand  a  show.  The  men  is  kind  to  un 
now,'  says  he,  'for  they  doesn't  lose  nothin'  by 
it.  If  they  stood  t'  lose  their  lives,  Tumm,  they'd 
push  un  out  o'  the  way,  an'  he'd  go  'ithout  a 

57 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

whimper.  I  got  t'  talk  t'  that  lad  for  his  own 
good/ 

"Which  he  done. 

"'Toby/  says  he,  *you  is  much  too  soft.  Don't 
you  go  an'  feel  bad,  now,  lad,  just  because  your 
father  tells  you  so;  for  'tis  not  much  more'n  a 
child  you  are,  an'  your  father's  old,  an*  knows 
all  about  life.  You  got  t'  get  hard  if  you  wants  t' 
hold  your  own.  You're  too  polite.  You  gives 
way  too  easy.  Dont  give  way — don't  give  way 
under  no  circumstances.  In  this  life,'  says  he, 
*  'tis  every  man  for  hisself.  I  don't  know  why 
God  made  it  that  way,'  says  he,  *but  He  done  it, 
an'  we  got  t'  stand  by.  You're  young,'  says  he, 
*an'  thinks  the  world  is  what  you'd  have  it  be  if 
you  made  it;  but  I'm  old,  an'  I  knows  that  a  man 
can't  be  polite  an'  live  to  his  prime  on  this  coast. 
Now,  lad,'  says  he,  *we  isn't  struck  the  ice  yet, 
but  I  'low  I  smell  it;  an'  once  we  gets  the  Second 
t'  None  in  the  midst,  'most  anything  is  likely  t' 
happen.  If  so  be  that  Tommy  Jump  gets  the 
schooner  in  a  mess  you  look  out  for  yourself; 
don't  think  o'  nobody  else,  for  you  can't  afford  to.' 

"*Yes,  sir,*  says  the  boy. 

"  *  Mark  me  well,  lad !  I'm  tellin'  you  this  for 
your  own  good.  You  won't  get  no  mercy  showed 
you;  so  don't  you  show  mercy  t'  nobody  else. 

58 


A   MATTER   OF   EXPEDIENCY 

If  it  comes  t'  your  life  or  the  other  man's,  you  put 
him  out  o*  the  way  afore  he  has  time  t'  put  you. 
Don't  let  un  give  battle.  Hit  un  so  quick  as 
you're  able.  It  '11  be  harder  if  you  waits.  You 
don't  have  t'  be  jair.  'Tisn't  expected.  No- 
body's fair.  An' — ah,  now,  Toby!'  says  he, 
puttin'  his  arm  over  the  boy's  shoulder,  *  if  you 
feels  like  givin*  way,  an'  lettin'  the  other  man 
have  your  chance,  an*  if  you  cant  think  o'  your- 
self, just  you  think  o'  your  mother.  Ah,  lad,'* 
says  he,  *  she'd  go  an'  cry  her  eyes  out  if  anything 
happened  t'  you.  Why,  Toby — oh,  my!  now, 
lad — why,  think  o'  the  way  she'd  sit  in  her  rockin'- 
chair,  an'  put  her  pinny  to  her  eyes,  an'  cry,  an* 
cry!  You're  the  only  one  she've  got,  an*  she 
couldn't,  lad,  she  couldn't  get  along  'ithout  you! 
Ah,  she'd  cry,  an'  cry,  an*  cry;  an*  they  wouldn't 
be  nothin*  in  all  the  world  t*  give  her  comfort! 
So  don*t  you  go  an*  grieve  her,  Toby,*  says  he, 
*by  bein'  tender-hearted.  Ah,  now,  Toby!*  says 
he,  *  don't  you  go  an'  make  your  poor  mother 
cry!' 

"*No,  sir,*  says  the  lad.     '1*11  not,  sir!* 
"*  That's  a  good  boy,  Toby,'  says  Jowl.      *I 
'low  you'll  be  a  man  when  you  grow  up,  if  your 
mother  doesn't  make  a  parson  o'  you.*** 
Tumm  made  a  wry  face. 
59 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "Tommy  Jump  kep' 
the  Second  t'  None  beatin'  hither  an'  yon  off  the 
Horse  Islands  for  two  days,  expectin'  ice  with 
the  nor'east  wind.  'Twas  in  the  days  afore  the 
sealin'  was  done  in  steamships  from  St.  John's, 
an'  they  was  a  cloud  o'  sail  at  the  selfsame  thing. 
An*  we  all  put  into  White  Bay,  in  the  mornin* 
in  chase  o*  the  floe,  an'  done  a  day's  work  on  the 
swiles  [seals]  afore  night.  But  nex'  day  we  was 
jammed  by  the  ice — the  fleet  o'  seventeen 
schooners,  cotched  in  the  bottom  o'  the  bay,  an' 
like  t'  crack  our  hulls  if  the  wind  held.  What- 
ever, the  wind  fell,  an'  there  come  a  time  o'  calm 
an'  cold,  an'  we  was  all  froze  in,  beyond  help, 
an'  could  do  nothin'  but  wait  for  the  ice  t'  drive 
out  an'  go  abroad,  an'  leave  us  t'  sink  or  sail,  as 
might  chance.  Tommy  Jump  'lowed  the  Second 
f  None  would  sink;  said  her  timbers  was  sprung, 
an*  she'd  leak  like  a  basket,  an'  crush  like  a  egg- 
shell, once  the  ice  begun  t'  drive  an'  grind  an' 
rafter — leastwise,  he  thunk  so,  admittin'  'twas 
open  t'  argument;  an'  he  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  t' 
pledge  the  word  of  a  gentleman  that  she  would 
sink. 

"'Whatever,'  says  he,  'we'll  stick  to  her  an' 
find  out.' 

"The  change  o'  wind  come  at  dusk — a  big 
60 


A    MATTER   OF    EXPEDIENCY 

blow  from  the  sou'west.  'Twas  beyond  doubt 
the  ice  would  go  t*  sea;  so  I  tipped  the  wink  t' 
young  Toby  Jowl  an'  told  un  the  time  was  come. 

"  *  I'll  save  my  life,  Tumm,'  says  he,  *  if  I'm  able.* 

"'Twas  a  pity!  Ecod!  t'  this  day  I  'low  'twas 
a  pity.  'Twas  a  fine,  sweet  lad,  that  Toby;  but 
he  looked  like  a  wolf,  that  night,  in  the  light  o' 
the  forecastle  lamp,  when  his  eyes  flashed  an 
his  upper  lip  stretched  thin  over  his  teeth! 

"*You  better  get  some  grub  in  your  pocket,* 
says  I. 

"*I  got  it,*  says  he. 

"'Well,'  says  I,  'I  'low  youve  learned! 
Where'd  you  get  it?" 

"'Stole  it  from  the  cook,'  says  he. 

"'Any  chance  for  me?' 

"'If  you're  lively,'  says  he.  'The  cook's  a 
fool.  .  .  .  Will  it  come  soon,  Tumm  ?'  says  he, 
with  a  grip  on  my  wrist.  'How  long  will  it  be, 
eh,  Tumm,  afore  'tis  every  man  for  hisself?' 

"Soon  enough,  God  knowed!  By  midnight 
the  edge  o'  the  floe  was  rubbin'  Pa'tridge  P'int, 
an'  the  ice  was  troubled  an'  angry.  In  an  hour 
the  pack  had  the  bottom  scrunched  out  o'  the 
Second  /'  None;  an'  she  was  kep'  above  water — 
listed  an'  dead — only  by  the  jam  o'  little  pans 
'longside.     Tommy    Jump    'lowed    we'd    strike 

6i 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

the  big  billows  o'  the  open  afore  dawn  an'  the 
pack  would  go  abroad  an'  leave  us  t'  fill  an' 
sink;  said  he  couldn't  do  no  more,  an'  the  crew 
could  take  care  o'  their  own  lives,  which  was 
what  he  would  do,  whatever  come  of  it.  'Twas 
blowin'  big  guns  then — rippin'  in  straight  lines 
right  off  from  Sop's  Arm  an'  all  them  harbors  for 
starved  bodies  an'  souls  t'  the  foot  o'  the  bay. 
An'  snow  come  with  the  wind;  the  heavens 
emptied  theirselves;  the  air  was  thick  an'  heavy. 
Seemed  t*  me  the  wrath  o'  sea  an'  sky  broke  loose 
upon  us — ^wind  an'  ice  an*  snow  an'  big  waves 
an'  cold — all  the  earth  contains  o'  hate  for  men! 
Skipper  Tommy  Jump  'lowed  we'd  better  stick 
t'  the  ship  so  long  as  we  was  able;  which  was 
merely  his  opinion,  an'  if  the  hands  had  a  mind 
t'  choose  their  pans  while  they  was  plenty,  they 
was  welcome  t'  do  it,  an'  he  wouldn't  see  no  man 
called  a  fool  if  his  fists  was  big  enough  t'  stop 
it.  But  no  man  took  t'  the  ice  at  that  time. 
An*  the  Second  t'  ISlone  ran  on  with  the  floe,  out 
t*  sea,  with  the  wind  an'  snow  playin'  the  devil 
for  their  own  amusement,  an'  the  ice  groanin' 
its  own  complaint.  ... 

"Then  we  struck  the  open. 

"  *  Now,  lads,*  yells  Tommy  Jump,  when  he  got 
2^U  hands  amidships,  *you  better  quit  the  ship. 

6? 


I    SEED    THE    SHAPE    OF    A    MAN    LEAP    FOR    MY    PLACE  " 


A   MATTER    OF   EXPEDIENCY 

The  best  time,'  says  he,  'will  be  when  you  sees 
me  go  overside.  But  don't  get  in  my  way.  You 
get  your  own  pans.  God  help  the  man  that  gets 
in  my  way!' 

"Tommy  Jump  went  overside  when  the  ice 
opened  an'  the  Second  /'  None  begun  t'  go  down 
an'  the  sea  was  spread  with  small  pans,  floatin' 
free.  'Twas  near  dawn  then.  Things  was  gray; 
an'  the  shapes  o'  things  was  strange  an'  big 
— out  o'  size,  fearsome.  Dawn  shot  over  the 
sea,  a  wide,  flat  beam  from  the  east,  an'  the 
shadows  was  big,  an'  the  light  dim,  an'  the  air 
full  o'  whirlin'  snow;  an'  men's  eyes  was  too 
wide  an'  red  an'  frightened  t'  look  with  sure 
sight  upon  the  world.  An'  all  the  ice  was  in  a 
tumble  o'  black  water.  .  .  .  An'  the  Second  f 
None  went  down.  .  .  .  An'  I  'lowed  they  wasn't 
no  room  on  my  pan  for  nobody  but  me.  But 
I  seed  the  shape  of  a  man  leap  for  my  place. 
An'  I  cursed  un,  an'  bade  un  go  farther,  or  I'd 
drown  un.  An'  he  leaped  for  the  pan  that  lied 
next,  where  Jowl  was  afloat,  with  no  room  t' 
spare.  An'  Jowl  hit  quick  an'  hard.  He  was 
waitin',  with  his  fists  closed,  when  the  black 
shape  landed;  an'  he  hit  quick  an'  hard  without 
lookin'.  .  .  .  An'  I  seed  the  face  in  the  water.  .  .  . 
An',  oh,  I  knowed  who  'twas! 

63 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

"*DearGod!'saysI. 

"Jowl  was  now  but  a  shape  in  the  snow. 
*  That  you,  Tumm  ?'  says  he.    '  What  you  sayin' .?' 

"'Why  didn't  you  take  time  t'  look?'  says  L 
*0h,  Jowl!  why  didn't  you  take  time  ?' 

"'T'  look?'  says  he. 

"'Dear  God!' 

"'What  you  sayin'  that  for,  Tumm  ?'  says  he. 
*What  you  mean,  Tumm  } .  .  .  My  God!'  says  he, 
*what  is  I  gone  an'  done  .?  Who  was  that,  Tumm  .? 
My  God !     Tell  me !     What  is  I  done  V 

"I  couldn't  find  no  words  t'  tell  un. 

"*Oh,  make  haste,'  says  he,  'afore  I  drifts 
away!' 

"'Dear  God!'  says  I,  "twas  Toby!' 

"An'  he  fell  flat  on  the  ice.  .  .  .  An'  I  didn't  see 
Jowl  no  more  for  four  year.  He  was  settled  at 
Mad  Tom's  Harbor  then,  where  you  seed  un 
t'-day;  an'  his  wife  was  dead,  an'  he  didn't  go 
no  more  t'  the  Labrador,  nor  t'  the  ice,  but  fished 
the  Mad  Tom  grounds  with  hook  an'  line  on 
quiet  days,  an'  was  turned  timid,  they  said,  with 
fear  o'  the  sea.  .  .  ." 

The  Good  Samaritan  ran  softly  through  the 
slow,  sleepy  sea,  bound  across  the  bay  to  trade 
the  ports  of  the  shore. 

64 


A   MATTER    OF   EXPEDIENCY 

"I  tells  you,  sir,"  Tumm  burst  out,  "'tis  hell. 
Life  is!  Maybe  not  where  you  hails  from,  sir; 
but  *tis  on  this  coast.  I  'low  where  you  comes 
from  they  don't  take  lives  t'  save  their  own  ?'* 

"Not  to  save  their  own,"  said  I. 

He  did  not  understand. 


Ill 

THE    MINSTREL 

SALIM  AW  AD,  poet,  was  the  son  of  Tanous 
—  that  orator.  Having  now  lost  at  love, 
he  lay  disconsolate  on  his  pallet  in  the  tenement 
overlooking  the  soap  factory.  He  would  not 
answer  any  voice;  nor  would  he  heed  the  gentle 
tap  and  call  of  old  Khalil  Khayyat,  the  tutor  of 
his  muse;  nor  would  he  yield  his  sorrow  to  the 
music  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  called  the  greatest  player 
in  all  the  world.  For  three  hours  Fiani,  in  the 
wail  and  sigh  of  his  violin,  had  expressed  the  woe 
of  love  through  the  key-hole;  but  Salim  Awad 
was  not  moved.  No;  the  poet  continued  in 
desolation  through  the  darkness  of  that  night, 
and  through  the  slow,  grimy,  unfeeling  hours  of 
day.  He  dwelt  upon  Haleema,  Khouri's  daugh- 
ter— she  (as  he  thought)  of  the  tresses  of  night, 
the  beautiful  one.  Salim  was  in  despair  because 
this  Haleema  had  chosen  to  wed  Jimmie  Brady, 

66 


THE   MINSTREL 


the  truckman.  She  loved  strength  more  than 
the  uplifted  spirit;  and  this  maidens  may  do,  as 
Salim  knew,  without  reproach  or  injury. 

When  the  dusk  of  the  second  day  was  gathered 
in  his  room,  Salim  looked  up,  eased  by  the  tender 
obscurity.  In  the  cobble-stoned  street  below  the 
clatter  of  traffic  had  subsided;  there  were  the 
shuffle  and  patter  of  feet  of  the  low-born  of  his 
people,  the  murmur  of  voices,  soft  laughter,  the 
plaintive  cries  of  children — the  dolorous  medley 
of  a  summer  night.  Beyond  the  fire-escape,  far 
past  the  roof  of  the  soap  factory,  lifted  high  above 
the  restless  Western  world,  was  the  starlit  sky; 
and  Salim  Awad,  searching  its  uttermost  depths, 
remembered  the  words  of  Antar,  crying  in  his 
heart:  "/  pass  the  night  regarding  the  stars  of 
night  in  my  distraction.  Ask  the  night  of  me,  and 
it  will  tell  thee  that  I  am  the  ally  of  sorrow  and  of 
anguish.  I  live  desolate;  there  is  no  one  like  me. 
I  am  the  friend  of  grief  and  of  desire.^' 

The  band  was  playing  in  Battery  Park;  the 
weird  music  of  it,  harsh,  incomprehensible,  an 
alien  love-song — 

"Hello,  mah  baby, 
Hello,  mah  honey, 
Hello,  mah  rag-time  girl!" 
67 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

drifted  in  at  the  open  window  with  a  breeze  from 
the  sea.  But  by  this  unmeaning  tumult  the 
soul  of  Salim  Awad,  being  far  removed,  was  not 
troubled;  he  remembered,  again,  the  words  of 
Antar,  addressed  to  his  beloved,  repeating:  "In 
thy  forehead  is  my  guide  to  truth;  and  in  the  night 
of  thy  tresses  I  wander  astray.  Thy  bosom  is 
created  as  an  enchantment.  O  may  God  protect  tt 
ever  in  that  perfection!  Will  fortune  ever^  O 
daughter  of  Malik^  ever  bless  me  with  thy  em- 
brace? That  would  cure  my  heart  of  the  sorrows 
of  love." 

And  again  the  music  of  the  band  in  Battery 
Park  drifted  up  the  murmuring  street, 

**Just  one  girl, 

Only  just  one  girl! 
TTiere  are  others,  I  know,  but  they're  not  my  pearl. 

Just  one  girl. 

Only  just  one  girl! 
I'd  be  happy  forever  with  just  one  girl!" 

and  came  in  at  the  open  window  with  the  Idle 
breeze;  and  Salim  heard  nothing  of  the  noise, 
but  was  grateful  for  the  cool  fingers  of  the  wind 
softly  lifting  the  hair  from  his  damp  brow. 

68 


THE    MINSTREL 


It  must  be  told — and  herein  is  a  mystery — that 
this  same  Salim,  who  had  lost  at  love,  now  from 
the  darkness  of  his  tenement  room  contemplating 
the  familiar  stars,  wise,  remote,  set  in  the  utter- 
most heights  of  heaven  beyond  the  soap  factory, 
was  by  the  magic  of  this  great  passion  inspired 
to  extol  the  graces  of  his  beloved  Haleema, 
Khouri's  daughter,  star  of  the  world,  and  to 
celebrate  his  own  despair,  the  love-woe  of  Salim, 
the  noble-born,  the  poet,  the  lover,  the  broken- 
hearted. Without  meditation,  as  he  has  said, 
without  brooding  or  design,  as  should  occur,  but 
rather,  taking  from  the  starlit  infinitude  beyond 
the  soap  factory,  seizing  from  the  mist  of  his 
vision  and  from  the  blood  of  agony  dripping  from 
his  lacerated  heart,  he  fashioned  a  love-song  so 
exquisite  and  frail,  so  shy  of  contact  with  un- 
feeling souls,  that  he  trembled  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  beauty,  for  the  moment  forgetting 
his  desolation,  and  conceived  himself  an  in- 
strument made  of  men,  wrought  of  mortal 
hands,  unworthy,  which  the  fingers  of  angels 
had  touched  in  alleviation  of  the  sorrows  of 
love. 

Thereupon  Salim  Awad  arose,  and  he  made 
haste  to  KhaHl  Khayyat  to  tell  him  of  this 
thing.  .  .  . 

69 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

This  same  Khalil  Khayyat,  lover  of  children, 
that  poet  and  mighty  editor,  the  tutor  of  the  young 
muse  of  this  Salim — this  patient  gardener  of  the 
souls  of  men,  wherein  he  sowed  seeds  of  the 
flowers  of  the  spirit — this  same  Khalil,  poet, 
whose  delight  was  in  the  tender  bloom  of  sorrow 
and  despair — this  old  Khayyat,  friend  of  Salim, 
the  youth,  the  noble-born,  sat  alone  in  the  little 
back  room  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  pastry-cook  and 
greatest  player  in  all  the  world.  And  his  narghile 
was  glowing;  the  coaj  was  live  and  red,  show- 
ing as  yet  no  gray  ash,  and  the  water  bubbled 
by  fits  and  starts,  and  the  alien  room,  tawdry  in 
its  imitation  of  the  Eastern  splendor,  dirty, 
flaring  and  sputtering  with  gas,  was  clouded  with 
the  sweet-smelhng  smoke.  To  the  coffee,  per- 
fume rising  with  the  steam  from  the  delicate 
vessel,  nor  to  the  rattle  of  dice  and  boisterous 
shouts  from  the  outer  room,  was  this  Khalil  at- 
tending; for  he  had  the  evening  dejection  to 
nurse.  He  leaned  over  the  green  baize  table, 
one  long,  lean  brown  hand  lying  upon  Kawkab 
Elhorriah  of  that  day,  as  if  in  aff^ectionate  pity, 
and  his  lean  brown  face  was  lifted  in  a  rapture  of 
anguish  to  the  grimy  ceiling;  for  the  dream  of  the 
writing  had  failed,  as  all  visions  of  beauty  must 
fail  in  the  reality  of  them,  and  there  had  been 

70 


THE   MINSTREL 


no  divine  spark  in  the  labor  of  the  day  to  set 
the  world  aflame  against  Abdul-Hamid,  Sultan, 
slaughterer. 

To  him,  then,  at  this  moment  of  inevitable  re- 
action, the  love-lorn  Salim,  entering  in  haste. 

"Once  more,  Salim,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat, 
sadly,  "I  have  failed." 

Salim  softly  closed  the  door. 

"I  am  yet  young,  Salim,"  the  editor  added, 
with  an  absent  smile,  in  which  was  no  bitterness 
at  all,  but  the  sweetness  of  long  suffering.  "I 
am  yet  young,"  he  repeated,  "for  in  the  beginning 
of  my  labor  I  hope." 

Salim  turned  the  key. 

"I  am  but  a  child,"  KhaHl  Khayyat  declared, 
his  voice,  now  lifted,  betraying  despair.  "I 
dream  in  letters  of  fire:  I  write  in  shadows.  In 
my  heart  is  a  flame:  from  the  point  of  my  pen 
flows  darkness.  I  proclaim  a  revolution:  I  hear 
loud  laughter  aad  the  noise  of  dice.  Salim,"  he 
cried,  "I  am  but  a  little  child:  when  night  falls 
upon  the  labor  of  my  day  I  remember  the 
morning!" 

"Khalil!" 

Khalil  Khayyat  was  thrilled  by  the  quality  of 
this  invocation. 

"Khalil  of  the  exalted  mission,  friend,  poet, 
6  71 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

teacher  of  the  aspiring,"  Sahm  Awad  whispered, 
leaning  close  to  the  ear  of  Khahl  Khayyat,  "a 
great  thing  has  come  to  pass." 

Khayyat  commanded  his  ecstatic  perturba- 
tion. 

"Hist!"  Salim  ejaculated.  "Is  there  not  one 
listening  at  the  door  ?" 

"There  is  no  one,  Salim;  it  is  the  feet  of  Nageeb 
the  cofFee-boy,  passing  to  the  table  of  Abosamara, 
the  merchant." 

Salim  hearkened. 

"There  is  no  one,  Sahm." 

"There  is  a  breathing  at  the  key-hole,  Khalil," 
Salim  protested.  "This  great  thing  must  not 
be  known." 

"There  is  no  one,  SaHm,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat. 
"  I  have  heard  Abosamara  call  these  seven  times. 
Being  rich,  he  is  brutal  to  such  as  serve.  The 
sound  is  of  the  feet  of  the  little  Intelligent  One. 
He  bears  coffee  to  the  impatient  merchant.  His 
feet  are  soft,  by  my  training;  they  pass  like  a 
whisper.  .  .  .  SaHm,  what  is  this  great  thing .?" 

"Nay,  but,  Khahl,  I  hesitate:  the  thing  must 
not  be  heard." 

"  Even  so,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat,  contemptuous- 
ly, being  still  a  poet;  "the  people  are  of  the  muck 
of  the  world;  they  are  common,  they  are  not  of 

72 


THE   MINSTREL 


our  blood  and  learning.  How  shall  they  un- 
derstand that  which  they  hear  ?" 

"Khalil,"  SaHm  Awad  answered,  reassured, 
"I  have  known  a  great  moment!" 

"A  great  moment?"  said  Khalil  Khayyat,  be- 
ing both  old  and  wise.  "Then  it  is  because  of 
agony.  There  has  issued  from  this  great  pain," 
said  he,  edging,  in  his  artistic  excitement,  toward 
the  victim  of  the  muse,  "a  divine  poem  of  love  .?" 

Salim  Awad  sighed. 

"Is  it  not  so,  Salim  ?" 

Salim  Awad  flung  himself  upon  the  green 
baize  table;  and  so  great  was  his  despair  that  the 
coffee-cup  of  Khalil  Khayyat  jumped  in  its  saucer. 
"I  have  suffered:  I  have  lost  at  love,"  he  answer- 
ed. "I  have  been  wounded;  I  bleed  copiously. 
I  lie  alone  in  a  desert.  My  passion  is  hunger  and 
thirst  and  a  gaping  wound.  From  fever  and  the 
night  I  cry  out.  Whence  is  my  healing  and  sat- 
isfaction ?  Nay,  but,  Khalil,  devoted  friend," 
he  groaned,  looking  up,  "  I  have  known  the  ulti- 
mate sorrow.  Haleema!"  cried  he,  rising,  hands 
clasped  and  uplifted,  eyes  looking  far  beyond  the 
alien,  cobwebbed,  blackened  ceiling  of  the  little 
back  room  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  pastry-cook  and 
greatest  player  in  all  the  world.  "  Haleema  1"  he 
cried,  as  it  may  meanly  be  translated.   "Haleema 

73 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

— my  sleep  and  waking,  night  and  day  of  my 
desiring  soul,  my  thought  and  heart-throb!  Ha- 
leema — gone  forever  from  me,  the  poet,  the  un- 
worthy, fled  to  the  arms  of  the  strong,  the  know- 
ing, the  manager  of  horses,  the  one  powerful  and 
controlling!  Haleema — beautiful  one,  fashioned 
of  God,  star  of  the  night  of  the  sons  of  men,  glory 
of  the  universe,  appealing,  of  the  soft  arms,  of 
the  bosom  of  sleep!  Haleema — of  the  finger-tips 
of  healing,  of  the  warm  touch  of  solace,  of  the 
bed  of  rest!  Haleema,  beautiful  one,  beloved, 
lost  to  me!  .  .  .  Haleema!  .  .  .  Haleema!  .  .  ." 

"God!"  Khalil  Khayyat  ejaculated;  "but  this 
is  indeed  great  poetry!" 

Salim  Awad  collapsed. 

"And  from  this,"  asked  Khalil  Khayyat,  cruel 
servant  of  art,  being  hopeful  concerning  the  issue, 
"there  has  come  a  great  poem  ?  There  musty* 
he  muttered,  "have  come  a  love-song,  a  heart's 
cry  in  comfort  of  such  as  have  lost  at  love." 

Salim  Awad  looked  up  from  the  table. 

"A  cry  of  patient  anguish,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat. 

"Khalil,"  said  Salim  Awad,  solemnly,  "the 
strings  of  my  soul  have  been  touched  by  the  hand 
of  the  Spirit." 

"By  the  Spirit?" 

"The  fingers  of  Infinite  Woe." 
74 


THE    MINSTREL 


To  this  Khalil  Khayyat  made  no  reply,  nor 
moved  one  muscle — save  that  his  hand  trembled 
a  little,  and  his  eyes,  which  had  been  steadfast- 
ly averted,  suddenly  searched  the  soul  of  Salim 
Awad.  It  w^as  very  still  in  the  little  back  room. 
There  was  the  sputtering  of  the  gas,  the  tread 
of  soft  feet  passing  in  haste  to  the  kitchen,  the 
clamor  from  the  outer  room,  where  common 
folk  were  gathered  for  their  pleasure,  but  no 
sound,  not  so  much  as  the  drawing  of  breath,  in 
the  little  room  where  these  poets  sat,  and  contin- 
ued in  this  silence,  until  presently  Khalil  Khayyat 
drew  very  close  to  Salim  Awad. 

"Salim,"  he  whispered,  "reveal  this  poem.'* 

"It  cannot  be  uttered,"  said  Salim  Awad. 

Khalil  Khayyat  was  by  this  amazed.  "Is  it 
then  so  great?"  he  asked.  "Then,  Salim,"  said 
he,  "let  it  be  as  a  jewel  held  in  common  by  us 
of  all  the  world." 

"I  am  tempted!" 

"I  plead,  Salim — I,  Khalil  Khayyat,  the  poet, 
the  philosopher — I  plead!" 

"I  may  not  share  this  great  poem,  Khalil," 
said  Salim  Awad,  commanding  himself,  "save 
with  such  as  have  suffered  as  I  have  suffered." 

"Then,"  answered  Khalil  Khayyat,  trium- 
phantly, "the  half  is  mine!" 

75 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"Is  yours,  Khalil  ?" 

"The  very  half,  SaHm,  is  the  inheritance  of 
my  woe!" 

"Khalil,"  answered  Salim  Awad,  rising,  "at- 
tend !"  He  smiled,  in  the  way  of  youth  upon  the 
aged,  and  put  an  affectionate  hand  on  the  old 
man's  shoulder.  "  My  song,"  said  he,  passionate- 
ly, "may  not  be  uttered;  for  in  all  the  world — 
since  of  these  accidents  God  first  made  grief — 
there  has  been  no  love-sorrow  like  my  despair!" 

Then,  indeed,  Khalil  Khayyat  knew  that  this 
same  Salim  Awad  was  a  worthy  poet.  And  he 
was  content;  for  he  had  known  a  young  man  to 
take  of  the  woe  from  his  own  heart  and  fashion 
a  love-song  too  sublime  for  revelation  to  the  un- 
feeling world  —  which  was  surely  poetry  suffi- 
cient to  the  day.  He  asked  no  more  concerning 
the  song,  but  took  counsel  with  Salim  Awad 
upon  his  journey  to  Newfoundland,  whither  the 
young  poet  was  going,  there  in.  trade  and  travel 
to  ease  the  sorrows  of  love.  And  he  told  him 
many  things  about  money  and  a  pack,  and  how 
that,  though  engaged  in  trade,  a  man  might  still 
journey  with  poetry;  the  one  being  of  place  and 
time  and  necessity,  and  the  other  of  the  free 
and  infinite  soul.  Concerning  the  words  spoken 
that  night  in  farewell  by  these  poets,  not  so  much 

76 


THE   MINSTREL 


as  one  word  is  known,  though  many  men  have 
greatly  desired  to  know,  beheving  the  moment 
to  have  been  propitious  for  high  speaking;  but 
not  a  word  is  to  be  written,  not  so  much  as  a 
sigh  to  be  described,  for  the  door  was  closed,  and, 
as  it  strangely  chanced,  there  was  no  ear  at  the 
key-hole.  But  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  greatest  player 
in  all  the  world,  entering  upon  the  departure  of 
Salim  Awad,  was  addressed  by  Khalil  Khayyat. 

"Nageeb,"  said  this  great  poet,  "I  have  seen 
a  minstrel  go  forth  upon  his  wandering." 

"Upon  what  journey  does  the  singer  go,  KhaHl  ?" 

"To  the  north,  Nageeb." 

"What  song,  Khalil,  does  the  man  sing  by  the 
way  ?" 

"The  song  is  in  his  heart," said  Khalil  Khayyat. 

Abosamara,  the  merchant,  being  only  rich, 
had  intruded  from  his  own  province.  "Come!" 
cried  he,  in  the  way  of  the  rich  who  are  only  rich. 
"Come!"  cried  he,  "how  shall  a  man  sing  with 
his  heart .?" 

Khalil  Khayyat  was  indignant. 

"Come!"  Abosamara  demanded,  "how  shall 
this  folly  be  accompHshed  ?" 

"  How  shall  the  deaf  understand  these  things  ?" 
answered  Khahl  Khayyat. 

And  this  became  a  saying.  .  .  . 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

Hapless  Harbor,  of  the  Newfoundland  French 
shore,  gray,  dispirited,  chilled  to  its  ribs  of  rock 
— circumscribed  by  black  sea  and  impenetrable 
walls  of  mist.  There  was  a  raw  wind  swaggering 
out  of  the  northeast  upon  it :  a  mean,  cold,  wet 
wind  —  swaggering  down  the  complaining  sea 
through  the  fog.  It  had  the  grounds  in  a  frothy 
turmoil,  the  shore  rocks  smothered  in  broken 
water,  the  spruce  of  the  heads  shivering,  the 
world  of  bleak  hill  and  wooded  valley  all  clammy 
to  the  touch;  and — chiefest  triumph  of  its  heart- 
lessness — it  had  the  little  children  of  the  place 
driven  into  the  kitchens  to  restore  their  blue 
noses  and  warm  their  cracked  hands.  Hapless 
Harbor,  then,  in  a  nor*east  blow,  and  a  dirty  day 
— uncivil  weather;  an  ugly  sea,  a  high  wind,  fog 
as  thick  as  cheese,  and,  to  top  off  with,  a  scowling 
glass.  Still  early  spring — snow  in  the  gullies, 
dripping  in  rivulets  to  the  harbor  water;  ice  at 
sea,  driving  with  the  variable,  evil-spirited  winds; 
perilous  sailing  and  a  wretched  voyage  of  it  upon 
that  coast.  A  mean  season,  a  dirty  day — a  time 
to  be  in  harbor.  A  time  most  foul  in  feeling  and 
intention,  an  hour  to  lie  snug  in  the  lee  of  some 
great  rock. 

The  punt  of  Salim  Awad,  double-reefed  in  un- 
willing deference  to  the  weather,  had  rounded 

78 


THE   MINSTREL 


Greedy  Head  soon  after  dawn,  blown  like  a 
brown  leaf,  Salim  being  bound  in  from  Catch-as- 
Catch-Can  with  the  favoring  wind.  It  was  the 
third  year  of  his  wandering  in  quest  of  that  ease 
of  the  sorrows  of  love;  and  as  he  came  into  quiet 
water  from  the  toss  and  spray  of  the  open,  rather 
than  a  hymn  in  praise  of  the  Almighty  who  had 
delivered  him  from  the  grasping  reach  of  the 
sea,  from  its  cold  fingers,  its  green,  dark,  swaying 
grave — rather  than  this  weakness — rather  than 
this  Newfoundland  habit  of  worship,  he  muttered, 
as  Antar,  that  great  lover  and  warrior,  had  long 
ago  cried  from  his  soul:  *' Under  thy  veil  is  the 
rosebud  of  my  life,  and  thine  eyes  are  guarded  with 
a  multitude  of  arrows;  round  thy  tent  is  a  lion- 
warrior,  the  sword's  edge,  and  the  spear  s point  " — ■ 
which  had  nothing  to  do,  indeed,  with  a  nor*east 
gale  and  the  flying,  biting,  salty  spray  of  a  north- 
ern sea.  But  this  Salim  had  come  in,  having  put 
out  from  Catch-as-Catch-Can  when  gray  light 
first  broke  upon  the  black,  tumultuous  world, 
being  anxious  to  make  Hapless  Harbor  as  soon  as 
might  be,  as  he  had  promised  a  child  in  the  fall 
of  the  year. 

This  Salim,  poet,  maker  of  the  song  that  could 
not  be  uttered,  tied  up  at  the  stage- head  of 
Sam  Swuth,  who  knew  the   sail   of  that  small 

79 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

craft,  and  had  lumbered  down  the  hill  to  meet 
him. 

"  Pup  of  a  day,"  says  Sam  Swuth. 

By  this  vulgarity  Salim  was  appalled. 

"Eh?"  says  Sam  Swuth. 

Salim's  pack,  stowed  amidships,  was  neatly 
and  efficiently  bound  with  tarpaulin,  the  infinite 
mystery  of  which  he  had  mastered;  but  his  punt, 
from  stem  to  stern,  swam  deeply  with  water 
gathered  on  the  way  from  Catch-as-Catch-Can. 

"Pup  of  a  day,"  says  Sam  Swuth. 

"Oh  my,  no!"  cried  Salim  Awad,  shocked  by 
this  inharmony  with  his  mood.  "Ver'  bad 
weather." 

"Pup  of  a  day,"  Sam  Swuth  insisted. 

"Ver'  bad  day,"  said  Salim  Awad.  "Ver' 
beeg  wind  for  thee  punt." 

The  pack  was  hoisted  from  the  boat. 

"An  the  glass  don't  lie,"  Sam  Swuth  promised, 
"they's  a  sight  dirtier  comin'." 

Salim  lifted  the  pack  to  his  back.  "Ver'  beeg 
sea,"  said  he.     "Ver'  bad  blow." 

"Ghost  Rock  breakin'?" 

"Ver'  bad  in  thee  Parlor  of  thee  Devil,"  Salim 
answered.  "Ver'  long,  black  hands  thee  sea  have. 
Ver'  white  finger-nail,"  he  laughed.  "Eh  ?  Ver' 
hong-ree  hands.     They  reach  for  thee  punt.    But 

80 


THE   MINSTREL 


I  am  have  escape,"  he  added,  with  a  proud  little 
grin.     *' I  am  have  escape.    I — SaHm!    Ver' good 
sailor.     Thee  sea  have  not  cotch  w^,  you  bet!" 
"  Ye'll  be  lyin'  the  night  in  Hapless  ?" 
"Oh  my,  no!     Ver'  poor  business.     I  am  mus' 
go  to  thee  Chain  Teekle.'* 

Salim  Aw^ad  w^ent  the  round  of  mean  white 
houses,  exerting  himself  in  trade,  according  to 
the  cure  prescribed  for  the  mortal  malady  of 
which  he  suffered;  but  as  he  passed  from  door  to 
door,  light-hearted,  dreaming  of  Haleema,  she 
of  the  tresses  of  night,  wherein  the  souls  of  men 
wandered  astray,  he  still  kept  sharp  lookout  for 
Jamie  Tuft,  the  young  son  of  Skipper  Jim,  whom 
he  had  come  through  the  wind  to  serve.  SaHm 
was  shy — shy  as  a  child;  more  shy  than  ever 
when  bent  upon  some  gentle  deed;  and  Jamie 
was  shy,  shy  as  lads  are  shy;  thus  no  meeting 
chanced  until,  when  in  the  afternoon  the  wind 
had  freshened,  these  two  blundered  together  in  the 
lee  of  Bishop's  Rock,  where  Jamie  was  hiding 
his  humiHation,  grief,  and  small  body,  but  de- 
voutly hoping,  all  the  while,  to  be  discovered  and 
relieved.  It  was  dry  in  that  place,  and  sheltered 
from  the  wind;  but  between  the  Tickle  heads* 
whence  the  harbor  opened  to  the  sea,  the  galfe 
was  to  be  observed  at  work  upon  the  run. 

8i 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Salim  stopped  dead.  Jamie  grinned  painfully 
and  kicked  at  the  road. 

"Hello!"  cried  Salim. 

"*Lo,  Joe!"  growled  Jamie. 

Salim  sighed.  He  wondered  concerning  the 
amount  Jamie  had  managed  to  gather.  Would 
it  be  sufficient  to  ease  his  conscience  through  the 
transaction  ?  The  sum  was  fixed.  Jamie  must 
have  the  money  or  go  wanting.  Salim  feared 
to  ask  the  question. 

"I  isn't  got  it,  Joe,"  said  Jamie. 

"Oh  my!     Too  bad!"  Salim  groaned. 

"Not  all  of  un,"  added  Jamie. 

Salim  took  heart;  he  leaned  close,  whispering, 
in  suspense:  "How  much  have  you  thee  got  ?" 

"Two  twenty — an'  a  penny." 

"Ver*  good!"  cried  Salim  Awad,  radiant. 
"Ver',  ver*  good!  Look!"  said  he:  "you  have 
wait  three  year  for  thee  watch.  Ver'  much  you 
have  want  thee  watch.  *Ha!'  I  theenk;  *ver' 
good  boy,  this — I  mus'  geeve  thee  watch  to  heem. 
No,  no!'  I  theenk;  *  ver'  bad  for  thee  boy.  I  mus' 
not  spoil  thee  ver'  good  boy.  Make  thee  mon-ee,' 
I  say;  *  catch  thee  feesh,  catch  thee  swile,  then 
thee  watch  have  be  to  you!'  Ver'  good.  What 
happen  ?  Second  year,  I  have  ask  about  the 
mon-ee.     Ver*  good.     'I  have  got  one  eighteen,* 

82 


THE   MINSTREL 


you  say.  Oh  my — no  good !  The  watch  have  be 
three  dollar.  Oh  my!  Then  I  theenk:  *I  have 
geeve  the  good  boy  thee  watch  for  one  eighteen. 
Oh  no,  I  mus'  not!'  I  theenk;  'ver'  bad  for  thee 
boy,  an'  nios'  ver'  awful  bad  trade.'  Then  I  say, 
*I  keep  thee  watch  for  one  year  more.'  Ver' 
good.  Thee  third  year  I  am  have  come.  Ver' 
good.  What  you  say  ?  '  I  have  thee  two  twenty- 
one,'  you  say.  Ver',  ver'  good.  Thee  price  of 
thee  watch  have  be  three  dollar?  No!  Not 
this  year.     Thee  price  have  not  be  three  dollar." 

Jamie  looked  up  in  hope. 

"Why  not  ?"  Salim  Awad  continued,  in  delight. 
"  Have  thee  watch  be  spoil  ?  No,  thee  watch 
have  be  ver*  good  watch.  Have  thee  price  go 
down  ?    No;  thee  price  have  not." 

Jamie  waited  in  intense  anxiety,  while  Salim 
paused  to  enjoy  the  mystery. 

**  Have  I  then  become  to  spoil  thee  boy  ?" 
Salim  demanded.  "No?  Ver'  good.  How 
then  can  thee  price  of  thee  watch  have  be  two 
twenty  ?'* 

Jamie  could  not  answer. 

"  Ver'  good !"  cried  the  delighted  Salim.  "  Ver', 
ver*  good!  I  am  have  tell  you.  Hist!"  he 
whispered. 

Jamie  cocked  his  ear. 
83 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"Hist!"  said  Salim  Awad  again. 

They  were  alone — upon  a  bleak  hill-side,  in  a 
wet,  driving  wind. 

"I  have  be  to  New  York,"  Salim  whispered, 
in  a  vast  excitement  of  secrecy  and  delight.  "  I 
am  theenk:  *Thee  boy  want  thee  watch.  How 
thee  boy  have  thee  watch  ^  Thee  good  boy  mus^ 
have  thee  watch.  Oh,  mygod!  how?'  I  theenk. 
I  theenk,  an'  I  theenk,  an'  I  theenk.  Thee  boy 
mus*  pay  fair  price  for  thee  watch.  Ha!  Thee 
Salim  ver'  clever.  He  feex  thee  price  of  thee 
watch,  you  bet!     Eh!     Ver'  good.     How?" 

Jamie  was  tapped  on  the  breast;  he  looked 
into  the  Syrian's  wide,  delighted,  mocking  brown 
eyes — but  could  not  fathom  the  mystery. 

"  How  ?"  cried  Salim.  "  Eh  ?  How  can  the 
price  come  down  ?" 

Jamie  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  smuggle  thee  watch!"  Salim  whispered. 

"Whew!"   Jamie  whistled.     "That's  sinful!" 

"Thee  watch  it  have  be  to  you,'*  answered 
Salim,  gently.  "Thee  sin,"  he  added,  bowing 
courteously,  a  hand  on  his  heart,  "it  have  be  all 
my  own!" 

For  a  long  time  after  Salim  Awad's  departure, 
Jamie  Tuft  sat  in  the  lee  of  Bishop's  Rock — 

84 


THE   MINSTREL 


until,  indeed,  the  dark  alien's  punt  had  fluttered 
out  to  sea  on  the  perilous  run  to  Chain  Tickle. 
It  began  to  rain  in  great  drops;  the  sullen  mood 
of  the  day  was  about  to  break  in  some  wrathful 
outrage  upon  the  coast.  Gusts  of  wind  swung 
in  and  down  upon  the  boy — a  cold  rain,  a  bitter, 
rising  wind.  But  Jamie  still  sat  oblivious  in  the 
lee  of  the  rock.  It  was  hard  for  him,  unused 
to  gifts,  through  all  his  days  unknown  to  favor- 
able changes  of  fortune,  to  overcome  his  astonish- 
ment— to  enter  into  the  reality  of  this  possession. 
The  like  had  never  happened  before:  never  be- 
fore had  joy  followed  all  in  a  flash  upon  months 
of  mournful  expectation.  He  sat  as  still  as  the 
passionless  rock  lifted  behind  him.  It  was  a 
tragedy  of  delight.  Two  dirty,  cracked,  toil- 
distorted  hands  —  two  young  hands,  aged  and 
stained  and  malformed  by  labor  beyond  their 
measure  of  strength  and  years  to  do — two  hands 
and  the  shining  treasure  within  them:  to  these  his 
world  was,  for  the  time,  reduced — the  rest,  the 
harsh  world  of  rock  and  rising  sea  and  harsher 
toil  and  deprivation,  was  turned  to  mist;  it  was 
like  a  circle  of  fog. 

Jamie  looked  up. 

"By  damn!"  he  thought,  savagely,  "'tis-^^'tis 
— mine! 

85 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

The  character  of  the  exclamation  is  to  be  con- 
doned; this  sense  of  ownership  had  come  like 
a  vision. 

"Why,  I  got  she!"  thought  Jamie. 

Herein  was  expressed  more  of  agonized  dread, 
more  of  the  terror  that  accompanies  great  pos- 
sessions, than  of  delight. 

"Ecod!"  he  muttered,  ecstatically;  "she's  mine 
— she's  mine!" 

The  watch  was  clutched  in  a  capable  fist.  It 
was  not  to  be  dropped,  you  may  be  sure!  Jamie 
looked  up  and  down  the  road.  There  was  no 
highwayman,  no  menacing  apparition  of  any 
sort,  but  the  fear  of  some  ghostly  ravager  had 
been  real  enough.  Presently  the  boy  laughed, 
arose,  moved  into  the  path,  stood  close  to  the 
verge  of  the  steep,  which  fell  abruptly  to  the 
harbor  water. 

"  I  got  t'  tell  mamma,"  he  thought. 

On  the  way  to  Jamie's  pocket  went  the  watch. 

"She'll  be  that  glad,"  the  boy  thought,  glee- 
fully, "that  she — she — she'll  jus'  fair  cryP' 

There  was  some  difficulty  with  the  pocket. 

"Yes,  sir,"  thought  Jamie,  grinning;  "mamma 
'11  jus'  cry!" 

The  watch  slipped  from  Jamie's  overcautious 
hand,  struck  the  rock  at  his  feet,  bounded  down 

86 


THE   MINSTREL 


the  steep,  splashed  into  the  harbor  water,  and 
vanished  forever.  .  .  . 

A  bad  time  at  sea :  a  rising  wind,  spray  on  the 
wing,  sheets  of  cold  rain — and  the  gray  light  of 
day  departing.  Salim  Awad  looked  back  upon 
the  coast;  he  saw  no  waste  of  restless  water  be- 
tween, no  weight  and  frown  of  cloud  above,  but 
only  the  great  black  gates  of  Hapless  Harbor, 
beyond  which,  by  the  favor  of  God,  he  had  been 
privileged  to  leave  a  pearl  of  delight.  With  the 
wind  abeam  he  ran  on  through  the  sudsy  sea, 
muttering,  within  his  heart,  as  that  great  Antar 
long  ago  had  cried :  "  Were  I  to  say  thy  face  is 
like  the  full  moon  of  heaveriy  wherein  that  full 
moon  is  the  eye  of  the  antelope?  Were  I  to  say 
thy  shape  is  like  the  branch  of  the  erak  tree,  oh, 
thou  shamest  it  in  the  grace  of  thy  form!  In  thy 
forehead  is  my  guide  to  truth,  and  in  the  night  of 
thy  tresses  I  wander  astray  P* 

And  presently,  having  won  Chain  Tickle,  he 
pulled  slowly  to  Aunt  Amelia's  wharf,  where  he 
moored  the  punt,  dreaming  all  the  while  of 
Haleema,  Khouri's  daughter,  star  of  the  world. 
Before  he  climbed  the  hill  to  the  little  cottage, 
ghostly  in  the  dusk  and  rain,  he  turned  again  to 
Hapless  Harbor.  The  fog  had  been  blown 
7  87 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

away;  beyond  the  heads  of  the  Tickle — far  across 
the  angry  run — the  lights  of  Hapless  were  shining 
cheerily. 

"Ver'  good  sailor — me!"  thought  Sahm.  "Ver' 
good  hand,  you  bet!" 

A  gust  of  wind  swept  down  the  Tickle  and  went 
bounding  up  the  hill. 

"He  not  get  me!"  muttered  Salim  between 
bared  teeth. 

A  second  gust  showered  the  peddler  with 
water  snatched  from  the  harbor. 

*'Ver'  glad  to  be  in,"  thought  Salim,  with  a 
shudder,  turning  now  from  the  black,  tumultuous 
prospect.     "Ver'  mos'  awful  glad  to  be  in!" 

It  was  cosey  in  Aunt  Amelia's  hospitable 
kitchen.  The  dark,  smiling  Salim,  with  his  mag- 
ic pack,  was  welcome.  The  wares  displayed — 
no  more  for  purchase  than  for  the  delight  of  in- 
spection— Salim  stowed  them  away,  sat  himself 
by  the  fire,  gave  himself  to  ease  and  comfort,  to 
the  delight  of  a  cigarette,  and  to  the  pleasure  of 
Aunt  Amelia's  genial  chattering.  The  wind  beat 
upon  the  cottage — went  on,  wailing,  sighing,  call- 
ing—  and  in  the  lulls  the  breaking  of  the  sea 
interrupted  the  silence.  An  hour  —  two  hours, 
it  may  be — -and  there  was  the  tramp  of  late- 
comers stumbling  up  the  hill.     A  loud  knocking, 


THE     DARK,     SMILING      SALIM,     WITH      HIS     MAGIC     PACK,    WAS 

WELCOME 


THE    MINSTREL 


then  entered  for  entertainment  three  gigantic 
dripping  figures  —  men  of  Catch-as-Catch-Can, 
bound  down  to  Wreckers'  Cove  for  a  doctor,  but 
now  put  in  for  shelter,  having  abandoned  hope 
of  winning  farther  through  the  gale  that  night. 
Need  o'  haste  ?  Ay;  but  what  could  men  do  ? 
No  time  t'  take  a  skiff  t'  Wreckers'  Cove  in  a 
wind  like  this!  'Twould  blow  your  hair  off 
beyond  the  Tickle  heads.  Hard  enough  crossin' 
the  run  from  Hapless  Harbor.  An'  was  there  a 
cup  o'  tea  an'  a  bed  for  the  crew  o'  them  .?  They'd 
be  under  way  by  dawn  if  the  wind  fell.  Ol' 
Tom  Luther  had  t'  have  a  doctor  somehow,  what- 
ever come  of  it! 

"Hello,  Joe!"  cried  the  one. 

Salim  rose  and  bowed. 

"Heared  tell  't  Hapless  Harbor  you  was  here- 
abouts." 

"Much  'bliged,"  Salim  responded,  courteously, 
bowing  again.     "Ver'  much  'bliged." 

"Heared  tell  you  sold  a  watch  t'  Jim  Tuft's 
young  one  ?" 

"Ver'  good  watch,"  said  Salim. 

"Maybe,"  was  the  response. 

Salim  blew  a  pufF  of  smoke  with  light  grace 
toward  the  white  rafters.  He  was  quite  serene; 
he   anticipated,    now,   a   compliment,    and   was 

89 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

fashioning,  of  his  inadequate  EngHsh,  a  dignified 
sentence  of  acknowledgment. 

"Anyhow,"  drawled  the  man  from  Catch-as- 
Catch-Can,  "she  won't  go  no  more." 

Salim  looked  up  bewildered. 

"Overboard,"  the  big  man  explained. 

"Wat!"  cried  SaHm. 

"Dropped  her." 

Salim  trembled.  "He  have  —  drop  thee  — 
watch?"  he  demanded.  "No,  no!"  he  cried. 
"The  boy  have  not  drop  thee  w^atch!" 

"Twelve  fathoms  o'  water." 

"Oh,  mygod!  Oh,  dear  me!"  groaned  Salim 
Awad.  He  began  to  pace  the  floor,  wringing  his 
hands.  They  watched  him  in  amazement.  "Oh, 
mygod!  Oh,  gracious!  He  have  drop  thee 
watch!"  he  continued.  "Oh,  thee  poor  broke 
heart  of  thee  boy!  Oh,  my!  He  have  work 
three  year  for  thee  watch.  He  have  want  thee 
watch  so  ver'  much.  Oh,  thee  great  grief  of  thee 
poor  boy!  I  am  mus'  go,"  said  he,  with  resolu- 
tion, "  I  am  mus'  go  to  thee  Hapless  at  thee  once. 
I  am  mus*  cure  thee  broke  heart  of  thee  poor  boy. 
Oh,  mygod!  Oh,  dear!"  They  scorned  the  in- 
tention, for  the  recklessness  of  it;  they  bade  him 
listen  to  the  wind,  the  rain  on  the  roof,  the  growl 
and  thud  of  the  breakers;  they  called  him  a  loon 

90 


THE    MINSTREL 


for  his  folly.  "Oh,  mygod!"  he  replied;  "you 
have  not  understand.  Thee  broke  heart  of  thee 
child !  Eh  ?  Wat  you  know  ?  Oh,  thee  ver* 
awful  pain  of  thee  broke  heart.  Eh  ?  I  know. 
I  am  have  thee  broke  heart.  I  am  have  bear  thee 
ver'  awful  bad  pain." 

Aunt  Amelia  put  a  hand  on  Salim's  arm. 

"I  am  mus'  go,"  said  the  Syrian,  defiantly. 

"Ye'll  not!"  the  woman  declared. 

"  I  am  mus*  go  to  thee  child." 

"  Ye'll  not  lose  your  life,  will  ye  ?" 

The  men  of  Catch-as-Catch-Can  were  in- 
capable of  a  word;  they  were  amazed  beyond 
speech.  'Twas  a  new  thing  in  their  experience. 
They  had  put  out  in  a  gale  to  fetch  the  doctor, 
all  as  a  matter  of  course;  but  this  risk  to  ease 
mere  woe  —  and  that  of  a  child!  They  were 
astounded. 

"  Oh  yes !"  Salim  answered.     "  For  thee  child." 

"Ye  fool!" 

Salim  looked  helplessly  about.  He  was  non- 
plussed. There  was  no  encouragement  anywhere 
to  be  descried.  Moreover,  he  was  bewildered 
that  they  should  not  understand! 

"For  thee  child — ^yes,"  he  repeated. 

They  did  but  stare. 

"  Thee  broke  heart,"  he  cried,"  of  thee  liT  child !" 
91 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

No  response  was  elicited. 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  groaned  the  poet.  "You  mus' 
see.     It  is  a  child!" 

A  gust  was  the  only  answer. 

"Oh,  mygod!"  cried  Salim  Awad,  poet,  who 
had  wandered  astray  in  the  tresses  of  night. 
"Oh,  dear  me!     Oh,  gee!" 

Without  more  persuasion,  he  prepared  himself 
for  this  high  mission  in  salvation  of  the  heart  of 
a  child;  and  being  no  longer  deterred,  he  put  out 
upon  it — having  no  fear  of  the  seething  water, 
but  a  great  pity  for  the  incomprehension  of  such 
as  knew  it  best.  It  was  a  wild  night;  the  wind 
was  a  vicious  wind,  the  rain  a  blinding  mist,  the 
night  thick  and  unkind,  the  sea  such  in  turmoil 
as  no  punt  could  live  through  save  by  grace. 
Beyond  Chain  Tickle,  Salim  Awad  entered  the 
thick  of  that  gale,  but  was  not  perturbed;  for 
he  remembered,  rather  than  recognized  the 
menace  of  the  water,  the  words  of  that  great 
lover,  Antar,  warrior  and  lover,  who,  from  the 
sands  of  isolation,  sang  to  Abla,  his  beloved: 
^'The  sun  as  it  sets  turns  toward  her  and  says. 
Darkness  obscures  the  land,  do  thou  arise  in  my 
absence.  And  the  brilliant  moon  calls  out  to  her. 
Come  forth,  for  thy  face  is  like  me  when  I  am  at 
the- full  and  in -all  my  glory,'' 

92 


THE   MINSTREL 


The  hand  upon  the  steering-oar  of  this  punt, 
cast  into  an  ill-tempered,  cold,  dreary,  evil-in- 
tentioned  northern  sea,  was  without  agitation, 
the  hand  upon  the  halyard  was  perceiving  and 
sure,  the  eye  of  intelligence  was  detached  from 
romance;  but  still  the  heart  remembered:  '^The 
tamarisk  -  trees  complain  of  her  in  the  morn 
and  in  the  eve,  and  say.  Away,  thou  waning 
beauty^  thou  form  of  the  laurel!  She  turns  away 
abashed,  and  throws  aside  her  veil,  and  the  roses 
are  scattered  from  her  soft,  fresh  cheeks.  Graceful 
is  every  limb,  slender  her  waist,  love-beaming  are 
her  glances,  waving  is  her  form.  The  lustre  of 
day  sparkles  from  her  forehead,  and  by  the  dark 
shades  of  her  curling  ringlets  night  itself  is  driven 
aiuay." 

The  lights  of  Hapless  Harbor  dwindled;  one 
by  one  they  went  out,  a  last  message  of  wariness; 
but  still  there  shone,  bright  and  promising  con- 
tinuance, a  lamp  of  Greedy  Head,  whereon  the 
cottage  of  Skipper  Jim  Tuft,  the  father  of  Jamie, 
was  builded. 

"I  will  have  come  safe,"  thought  Salim,  "if 
thee  light  of  Jamie  have  burn  on." 

It  continued  to  burn. 

"It  is  because  of  thee  broke  heart,"  thought 
Salim. 

93 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

The  light  was  not  put  out:  Salim  Awad — this 
child  of  sand  and  heat  and  poetry — made  harbor 
in  the  rocky  north;  and  he  was  delighted  with  the 
achievement.  But  how  ?  I  do  not  know.  'Twas 
a  marvellous  thing — thus  to  flaunt  through  three 
miles  of  wind-swept,  grasping  sea.  A  gale  of 
wind  was  blowing — a  gale  to  compel  schooners 
to  reef — ay,  and  to  double  reef,  and  to  hunt 
shelter  like  a  rabbit  pursued:  this  I  have  been 
told,  and  for  myself  know,  because  I  was  abroad. 
Cape  Norman  way.  No  Newfoundlander  could 
have  crossed  the  run  from  Chain  Tickle  to  Hap- 
less Harbor  at  that  time;  the  thing  is  beyond  dis- 
pute; 'twas  a  feat  impossible — ^with  wind  and  lop 
and  rain  and  pelting  spray  to  fight.  But  this 
poet,  desert  born  and  bred,  won  through,  despite 
the  antagonism  of  all  alien  enemies,  cold  and  wet 
and  vigorous  wind:  this  poet  won  through,  led 
by  Antar,  who  said :  "  Thy  bosom  is  created  as  an 
enchantment.  Oh,  may  God  protect  it  ever  in 
that  perfection,^*  and  by  his  great  wish  to  ease 
the  pain  of  a  child,  and  by  his  knowledge  of 
wind  and  sea,  gained  by  three  years  of  seeking 
for  the  relief  of  the  sorrows  of  love. 

"Ver*  good  sailor,"  thought  Salim  Awad,  as 
he  tied  up  at  Sam  Swuth's  wharf. 

*Twas  a  proper  estimate. 
94 


THE   MINSTREL 


"  Ver'  good,'*  he  repeated.  "Ver'  beeg  good," 
Then  this  Salim,  who  had  lost  at  love,  made 
haste  to  the  cottage  of  Skipper  Jim  Tuft,  wherein 
was  the  child  Jamie,  who  had  lost  the  watch.  He 
entered  abruptly  from  the  gale — recognizing  no 
ceremony  of  knocking,  as  why  should  he  .?  There 
was  discovered  to  him  a  dismal  group:  Skipper 
Jim,  Jamie's  mother,  Jamie — all  in  the  uttermost 
depths.  "I  am  come!"  cried  he.  "I  —  Salim 
Awad — I  am  come  from  thee  sea!  I  am  come 
from  thee  black  night — I  am  come  wet  from  thee 
rain — I  am  escape  thee  hands  of  thee  sea!  I  am 
come — I,  Salim  Awad,  broke  of  thee  heart!'* 
'Twas  a  surprising  thing  to  the  inmates  of  that 
mean,  hopeless  place.  "I  am  come,"  Salim  re- 
peated, posing  dramatically — "I,  SaHm — I  am 
come!"  'Twas  no  more  than  amazement  he 
confronted.  "To  thee  help  of  thee  child,"  he 
repeated.  "Eh?  To  thee  cure  of  thee  broke 
heart."  There  was  no  instant  response.  Salim 
drew  a  new  watch  from  his  pocket.  "I  have 
come  from  thee  ver'  mos'  awful  sea  with  thee  new 
watch.  Eh  ?  Ver'  good.  I  am  fetch  thee  cure 
of  thee  broke  heart  to  thee  poor  child."  There 
was  no  doubt  about  the  efficacy  of  the  cure. 
'Twas  a  thing  evident  and  delightful.  Salim  was 
wet,  cold,  disheartened  by  the  night  and  weather; 

95 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

but  the  response  restored  him.  "Thee  watch 
an'  thee  \VV  chain,  Jamie,"  said  he,  with  a  bow 
most  poHte,  "it  is  to  you.'* 

Jamie  grabbed  the  watch. 

"Ver'  much  'bhged,"  said  Salim. 

"Thanks,"  said  Jamie. 

And  in  this  cheap  and  simple  way  Salim  Awad 
restored  the  soul  of  Jamie  Tuft  and  brought  hap- 
piness to  all  that  household. 

And  now,  when  the  news  of  this  feat  came  to 
the  ears  of  Khalil  Khayyat,  the  editor,  as  all  news 
must  come,  he  sought  the  little  back  room  of 
Nageeb  Fiani,  the  greatest  player  m  all  the  world, 
with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  Presently  he  got  his 
narghile  going,  and  a  cup  of  perfumed  coflPee  be- 
fore him  on  the  round,  green  baize  table;  and 
he  was  very  happy — ^what  with  the  narghile  and 
the  coffee  and  the  letter  from  the  north.  There 
was  hot  weather,  the  sweat  and  complaint  of  the 
tenements;  there  was  the  intermittent  roar  and 
shriek  of  the  Elevated  trains  rounding  the  curve 
to  South  Ferry;  there  was  the  street  murmur  and 
gasp,  the  noise  of  boisterous  voices  and  the  chck 
of  dice  in  the  outer  room;  but  by  these  Khalil 
Khayyat  was  not  disturbed.  Indeed  not;  there 
was  a  matter  of  the  poetry  of  reality  occupying 

96 


THE    MINSTREL 


his  attention.  He  called  Nageeb,  the  little  In- 
telligent One,  who  came  with  soft  feet;  and  he 
bade  the  little  one  summon  to  his  presence 
Nageeb  Fiani,  the  artist,  the  greatest  player  in 
all  the  world,  who  came,  deferentially,  wondering 
concerning  this  important  message  from  the  poet. 

"Nageeb,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat,  "there  has 
come  a  letter  from  the  north." 

Nageeb  assented. 

"It  concerns  Salim,"  said  Khayyat. 

"What  has  this  Salim  accomplished,"  asked  Na- 
geeb Fiani,  "in  alleviation  of  the  sorrows  of  love  ?" 

Khayyat  would  not  answer. 

"Tell  me,"  Nageeb  pleaded. 

"This  Salim,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat,  "made  a 
song  that  could  not  be  uttered.  It  is  well,"  said 
Khalil  Khayyat.     "You  remember ?" 

Nageeb  remembered. 

"Then  know  this,"  said  Khahl  Khayyat,  ab- 
ruptly, "the  song  he  could  not  utter  he  sings  in 
gentle  deeds.  It  is  a  great  song;  it  is  too  great  for 
singing — it  must  be  lived.  This  Salim,"  he  add- 
ed, "is  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived.  He  ex- 
presses his  sublime  and  perfect  compositions  in 
dear  deeds.     He  is,  indeed,  a  great  poet." 

Nageeb  Fiani  thought  it  great  argument  for 
poetry;  so,  too,  Khalil  Khayyat. 

97 


IV 

THE    SQUALL 

TUMM  of  the  Good  Samaritan  kicked  the 
cabin  stove  into  a  sputter  and  roar  of  flame 
so  lusty  that  the  black  weather  of  Jump  Har- 
bor was  instantly  reduced  from  arrogant  and 
disquieting  menace  to  an  impression  of  contrast 
grateful  to  the  heart.  "Not  bein'  a  parson," 
said  he,  roused  now  from  a  brooding  silence  by 
this  radiant  inspiration,  "  I  isn't  much  of  a  hand 
at  accountin'  for  the  mysteries  o'  God;  an'  never 
havin'  made  a  world,  I  isn't  no  critic  o'  creation. 
Still  an'  all,"  he  persisted,  in  a  flash  of  complaint, 
"it  did  seem  t*  me,  somehow,  accordin'  t'  my 
lights,  which  wasn't  trimmed  at  no  theological 
college,  that  the  Maker  o'  Archibald  Shott  o' 
Jump  Harbor  hadn't  been  quite  kind  t'  Arch." 
The  man  shifted  his  feet  in  impatient  disdain, 
then  laughed  —  a  gently  contemptuous  shaft, 
directed  at  his  insolence:  perhaps,  too,  at  his 

98 


THE   SQUALL 


ignorance.  It  fell  to  a  sigh,  however,  which 
continued  expression,  presently,  in  a  glance  of 
poignant  bewilderment.  "Take  un  by  an'  all," 
he  pursued,  "I  was  wonderful  sorry  for  Arch. 
Seemed  t'  me,  sir,  though  he  bore  the  sign  o* 
the  Lord's  own  hand,  as  do  us  all,  that  he'd 
but  a  mean  lookout  for  gracious  livin',  after 
all. 

"Poor  Archibald  Shott! 

"'Arch,  b'y,'  says  I,  'you  got  the  disposition 
of  a  snake.' 

"  *  Is  I  ?'  says  he.  *  Maybe  you're  right,  Tumm. 
I  never  knowed  a  snake  in  a  intimate  way.' 

"*You  got  the  soul,'  said  I,  *of  a  ill-born 
squid.' 

"'Don't  know,'  said  he;  *  never  seed  a  squid's 
soul.' 

"'Your  tongue,'  says  I,  *is  a  flame  o'  fire;  'tis 
a  wonder  t*  me  she  haven't  blistered  your  lips 
long  afore  this.' 

"'Isn't  my  fault,'  says  he. 

"'No?'  says  I.     'Then  who's  t'  blame?' 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'God  made  me.' 

"'Anyhow,'  said  I,  'you've  took  t'  the  devil's 
alterations  an'  improvements  like  a  imp  t'  hell 
fire.'" 

Tumm  dropped  into  an  angry  muse.  .  .  • 
99 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

We  had  put  in  from  the  sea  off  the  Harborless 
Shore,  balked  by  a  screaming  Newfoundland 
northwester,  allied  with  fog  and  falling  night, 
from  rounding  Taunt  Head,  beyond  which  lay 
the  snug  harbor  and  waiting  fish  of  Candlestick 
Cove,  It  had  been  labor  enough,  enough  of 
cold,  of  sleety  wind  and  anxious  watching,  to  send 
the  crew  to  berth  in  sleepy  confusion  when  the 
teacups  were  emptied.  Tumm  and  I  sat  in  the 
companionable  seclusion  of  the  trader's  cabin, 
the  schooner  lying  at  ease  in  the  shelter  of  Jump 
Harbor.  In  the  pause,  led  by  the  wind  from 
this  warmth  and  peace  and  light  to  the  reaches  of 
frothy  coast,  I  recalled  the  cliffs  of  Black  Bight, 
upon  which,  as  I  had  been  told  in  the  gray  gale 
of  that  day,  the  inevitable  had  overtaken  Archi- 
bald Shott.  They  sprang  clear  from  the  breakers, 
an  expanse  of  black  rock,  barren  as  a  bone,  as  it 
seemed  in  the  sullen  light,  rising  to  a  veil  of  fog, 
which,  floating  higher  than  our  foremast,  kept 
their  topmost  places  in  forbidding  mystery.  We 
had  come  about  within  stone's-throw,  so  that  the 
bleak  walls,  echoing  upon  us,  doubled  the  thunder 
of  the  sea.  They  inclined  from  the  water:  I  bore 
this  impression  away  as  the  schooner  darted  from 
their  proximity — an  impression,  too,  of  ledges, 
crevices,  broken  surfaces.     In  that  tumultuous 

ICO 


THE   SQUALL 


commotion,  perhaps,  flung  then  against  my  senses, 
I  had  small  power  to  observe;  but  I  fancied,  I  re- 
call, that  a  nimble  man,  pursued  by  fear,  might 
scale  the  Black  Bight  cliffs.  There  was  imper- 
ative need,  however,  of  knowing  the  way,  else  there 
might  be  neither  advance  nor  turning  back.  .  .  . 

"Seemed  t'  be  made  jus'  o'  leavin's.  Arch  did," 
Tumm  resumed,  with  a  little  twitch  of  scorn: 
"jus*  knocked  t'gether,"  said  he,  "with  scraps 
an'  odds  an'  ends  from  the  loft  an'  floor.  But 
whatever,  an  a  man  had  no  harsh  feelin'  again'  a 
body  patched  up  out  o'  the  shavin's  o'  bigger  folk, 
a  lean,  long-legged,  rickety  sort  o'  carcass,  like 
t'  break  in  the  grip  of  a  real  man,"  he  continued, 
"nor  bore  no  grudge  again'  high  cheek-bones, 
skimped  lips,  a  ape's  forehead,  an'  pale-green 
eyes,  sot  close  to  a  nose  like  a  axe  an'  pushed  a 
bit  too  far  back,  why,  then,"  he  concluded,  with 
a  largely  generous  wave,  "they  wasn't  a  deal  o' 
fault  t'  be  found  with  the  looks  o'  Archibald 
Shott.  Wasn't  no  reason  ever  /  seed  why  Arch 
shouldn't  o'  wed  any  maid  o'  nineteen  harbors 
an'  lived  a  sober,  righteous,  an'  fatherly  life  till 
the  sea  cotched  un.  But  it  seemed,  somehow, 
that  Arch  must  fall  in  love  with  the  maid  o' 
Jump  Harbor  that  was  promised  t'  Slow  Jim 

lOI 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Tool — a  lovely  lass,  sir,  believe  me:  a  dimpled, 
rosy,  towheaded,  ripplin*  sort  o*  maid,  as  soft  as 
feathers  an*  as  plump  as  a  oyster,  with  a  dis- 
position like  sunshine  an' — an' — well,  flowers. 
She  was  a  wonderful  dear  an'  tender  lass,  quick 
t'  smile,  sir,  quick  as  the  sea  in  a  sunlit  southerly 
wind,  an'  quick  t'  cry,  too,  God  bless  her!  in 
sympathy  with  the  woes  o'  folk. 

"  *  Arch,'  says  I,  wind-bound  in  the  Curly  Head 
at  Jump  Harbor,  *  don't  you  do  it.' 

"*Love,'  says  he,  *is  queer.' 

"  *  Maybe,'  says  I ;  *  but  keep  off.  You  go,'  says 
I,  *an'  get  a  maid  o'  your  own.* 

***  Wonderful  queer,'  says  he.  *'Twouldn't 
s'prise  me,  Tumm,*  says  he,  'if  a  man  failed  in 
love  with  a  fish-hook.' 

"'Well,'  says  I,  "Lizabeth  All  isn't  no  fish- 
hook. She've  red  cheeks  an'  blue  eyes  an'  as 
soft  an'  round  a  body  as  a  man  ever  clapped  eyes 
on.  Her  hair,'  says  I,  *is  a  glory;  an',  Arch,' 
says  I,  *why,  she  pities  F 

"'True,'  says  he;  'but  it  falls  far  short.* 

'"How  far?'  says  I. 

'"Well,*  says  he,  'you  left  out  her  muscles.' 

"'Look  you.  Arch!'  says  I;  'you  isn't  nothin* 
but  a  mean  man.  They  isn't  nothin'  that's  low 
an'  cruel  an'  irreligious  that  you  can't  be  com- 

102 


THE   SQUALL 


fortable  shipmates  with.  Understand  me  ?  They 
isn't  nothin'  that  can't  be  spoke  of  in  the  presence 
o*  women  an'  children  that  isn't  as  good  as  a 
Sunday-school  treat  t'  you.  It  doesn't  scare  you 
t*  know  that  the  things  o'  your  delight  would 
ruin  God's  own  world  an  they  had  their  way. 
Understand  me  ?'  says  I,  bein'  bound,  now,  to 
make  it  plain.  *An'  now,*  says  I,  'what  you 
got  t'  give,  anyhow,  for  the  heart  an'  sweet  looks 
o'  this  maid?  Is  you  thinkin','  says  I,  'that 
she've  a  hankerin'  after  your  dried  beef  body  an' 
pill  of  a  soul  ?' 

"  *  Never  you  mind,'  says  he. 

"  *  Speak  up !'  says  I.     *  What  you  got  t'  trade  P 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'I'm  clever.' 

""Tis  small  cleverness  t'  think,'  says  I, 'that 
in  these  parts  a  ounce  o'  brains  is  as  good  as  a 
hundredweight  o'  chest  an'  shoulders.' 

"'You  jus'  wait  an'  see,'  says  he. 

"Seems  that  Jim  Tool  was  a  big  man  with  a 
curly  head  an'  a  maid's  gray  eyes.  He  was 
wonderful  solemn  an'  soft  an'  slow — so  slow, 
believe  m<?,  sir,  that  he  wouldn't  quite  know  till 
to-morrow  what  he  found  out  yesterday.  If 
you  spat  in  his  face  to-day,  sir,  he  might  drop  in 
any  time  toward  the  end  o'  next  week  an'  knock 
you  down;  but  if  he  put  it  off  for  a  fortnight, 
«  103 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

why,  'twouldn't  be  so  wonderful  s'prisin'.  I 
Mow  he  was  troubled  a  deal  by  the  world.  'Twas 
all  a  mystery  to  un.  He  went  about,  sir,  with 
his  brows  drawed  down  an'  a  look  o'  wonder  an' 
s'prise  an'  pity  on  his  big,  kind,  pink-an'-white 
face.  He  was  always  s'prised;  never  seemed  t' 
expect  nothin' — never  seemed  t'  be  ready.  I 
Mow  it  shocked  un  t'  pull  a  fish  over  the  side. 
*Dear  man!'  says  he.  'Well,  well!'  What  he 
done  when  'Lizabeth  All  first  kissed  un  'tis  past 
me  t'  tell.  I  'low  that  shootin'  wouldn't  o' 
shocked  un  more.  An'  how  long  it  took  un  t' 
wake  up  an'  really  feel  that  kiss — how  many  days 
o'  wonder  an'  s'prise  an'  doubt — 'twould  take  a 
parson  t'  reckon.  Anyhow,  she  loved  un:  I 
knows  she  did — she  loved  un,  sir,  because  he 
was  big  an'  kind  an'  curly-headed,  which  was 
enough  for  'Lizabeth  All,  I  'low,  an'  might  be 
enough  for  any  likely  maid  o'  Newf'un'land." 

I  dropped  a  birch  billet  in  the  stove. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Tumm,  moodily,  "it  didn't 
last  long." 

The  fire  crackled  a  genial  accompaniment  to 
the  tale  of  Slow  Jim  Tool.  .  .  . 

"Well,  now,"  Tumm  continued,  "Slow  Jim 
Tool  an'  Archibald  Shott  o'  Jump  Harbor  was 

104 


THE   SQUALL 


cast  away  in  the  Dimple  at  Creep  Head  o'  the 
Labrador.  Bein'  wrecked  seamen,  they  come 
up  in  the  mail-boat;  an'  it  so  happened,  sir,  that 
*long  about  Run-by-Guess,  with  the  fog  thick, 
an'  dusk  near  come,  Archibald  Shott  managed 
t'  steal  a  Yankee's  gold  watch  an'  sink  un  in  the 
pocket  o'  Slow  Jim  Tool.  'Twas  s'prisin*  t* 
Jim.  Fact  is,  when  they  cotched  un  with  the 
prope'ty,  sir,  Jim  'lowed  he  never  knowed  when 
he  done  it  —  never  knowed  he  could  do  it. 
*Ecod!'  says  he;  *now  that  s'prises  me.  I  mus* 
o'  stole  that  there  watch  in  my  sleep.  Well, 
well!'  S'prised  un  a  deal  more,  they  says,  when 
a  brass-buttoned  constable  come  aboard  at  Tilt 
Cove  an'  took  un  in  charge  in  the  Queen's  name. 
*  In  the  Queen's  name!'  says  Jim.  'What's  that  ? 
In  the  Queen's  name?  Dear  man!'  says  he; 
*but  this  is  awful!  An'  I  never  knows  when  I 
done  it!'  'Twas  more  s'prisin'  still  when  they 
haled  un  past  Jump  Harbor.  *Why,'  says  he,  *I 
wants  t'  go  home  an'  see  'Lizabeth  All.  Why,* 
says  he,  'I  got  t'  talk  it  over  with  'Lizabeth!* 
*You  can't,'  says  the  constable.  *But,'  says 
Jim,  *I  got  t'.  Why,*  says  he,  *I  always  have.* 
*Now,'  says  the  constable,  'don't  you  make  no 
trouble.*  So  Jim  was  s'prised  again;  but  when 
the  judge  give  un  a  year  t'  repent  an'  make  brooms 

105 


EVERY    MAN    FOR  HIMSELF 

in  chokee  t'  St.  John's  he  was  so  s'prised,  they 
says,  that  he  never  come  to  his  senses  till  he  land- 
ed back  at  Jump  Harbor  an*  was  kissed  seven 
times  by  'Lizabeth  All  in  the  sight  o'  the  folk  o' 
that  place.  An'  even  after  that,  I'm  told — ay, 
through  a  season's  fishin' — he  pondered  a  deal 
more'n  was  good  for  un.  Ashore  an'  afloat, 
'twas  all  the  same.  *Well,  well!'  says  he.  *Dear 
man !  I  wonders  how  I  done  it.  Arch,'  says  he, 
*you  was  aboard;  can't  you  throw  no  light?' 
Arch  'lowed  he  might  an  he  but  tried,  but 
wouldn't.  *  Might  interfere,'  says  he,  *atween 
you  an'  'Lizabeth.'  *But,*  says  Jim,  *as  a 
friend  ?' 

"*Well,'  says  Arch,  "riginal  sin.' 

""Riginal  sin!'  says  Jim.  'Dear  man!  but 
I  mus'  have  got  my  share!' 

"  *  You  is,'  says  Arch.  *  'Tis  plain  in  your  face. 
You  looks  low  and  vicious.  'Riginal  sin,  Jim,' 
says  he,  *  marks  a  man.* 

"* Think  so?'  says  Jim.     'I'm  sorry  I  got  it.* 

"'An'  look  you!'  says  Arch;  'you  better  be 
wonderful  careful  about  unshippin*  wickedness 
on  'Lizabeth.* 

" '  On  'Lizabeth  ?'  says  Jim.  '  What  you  mean  ? 
God  knows,*  says  he,  'I'd  not  hurt  'Lizabeth.' 

"'Then  ponder,'  says  Arch.  "Riginal  sin  is 
io6 


THE   SQUALL 


made  you  a  thief  an'  a  jailbird.     Ponder,  Jim — 
ponder!* 

"  Now,"  cries  Tumm,  in  an  outburst  of  feeling, 
"what  you  think  'Lizabeth  All  done  ?" 

I  was  confused  by  the  question. 

"Why,"  Tumm  answered,  "it  didn't  make  no 
difference  t'  she!" 

I  was  not  surprised. 

"Not  s'prised!"  cries  Tumm.  "No,"  he 
snapped,  indignantly,  "nor  neither  was  Slow 
Jim  Tool.'* 

Of  course  not! 

"Nobody  knows  nothin'  about  a  woman," 
said  Tumm;  "least  of  all,  the  woman.  An*, 
anyhow,"  he  resumed,  "'Lizabeth  All  didn't 
care.  Why,  God  save  you,  sir!"  he  burst  out, 
"she  loved  the  shoulders  an*  soul  o'  Slow  Jim 
Tool  too  much  t*  care.  *Tis  a  woman*s  way;  an* 
a  woman's  true  love  so  passes  the  knowledge  o* 
men  that  faith  in  God  is  a  lesson  in  A  B  C  beside 
it.  Well,**  he  continued,  "sailin*  the  Give  an* 
Take  that  fall,  I  was  cotched  in  the  early  freeze-up, 
an'  us  put  the  winter  in  at  Jump  Harbor,  with 
a  hold  full  o*  fish  an*  every  married  man  o*  the 
crew  in  a  righteous  rage.  An*  as  for  *Lizabeth, 
why,  when  us  cleared  the  school-room,  when  ol* 
Bill  Bump  fiddled  up  with  the  accordion  *  Mon- 

107 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

ey  Musk'  an'  'Pop  Goes  the  Weasel,'  when  he 
sung  out,  'Balance!'  an'  'H'ist  her,  lad!'  when 
the  jackets  was  throwed  aside  an'  the  boots 
was  cast  off,  why,  'Lizabeth  All  jus'  fair  dinged 
t'  that  there  big,  gray-eyed,  pink-an'-white  Slow 
Jim  Tool!  'Twas  a  pretty  sight  t'  watch  her, 
sir,  plump  an'  winsome  an'  yellow-haired,  float 
like  a  sea-gull  over  the  school-room  floor — t'  see 
her  blushes  an'  smiles  an'  eyes  o'  love.  It  done 
me  good.  I  'lowed  I  wished  I  was  young  again 
— an'  big  an'  slow  an'  kind  an'  curly-headed. 
But  lookin'  about,  sir,  it  seemed  t'  me,  as  best  I 
could  understand,  that  a  regiment  o'  little  devils 
was  stickin'  red-hot  fish-forks  into  the  vitals  o' 
Archibald  Shott;  an'  then  I  'lowed,  somehow, 
that  maybe  I  was  jus'  as  well  off^  as  I  was.  I  got 
a  look  in  his  eyes,  sir,  afore  the  night  was  done; 
ah*  it  jus'  seemed  t'  me  that  the  Lord  had  give 
me  a  peep*  into  hell. 

"'Twas  more'n  Archibald  Shott  could  carry. 
*Tumm,'  says  he,  nex'  day,  *I  'low  I'll  move.* 

"'Whereto?'  says  L 

""Low  I'll  jack  my  house  down  t'  the  ice,'  says 
he,  *  an'  haul  she  over  t'  Deep  Cove.  I've  growed 
tired,'  says  he,  *o'  fishin*  Jump  Harbor,' 

"Well,  now,  they  wasn't  no  prayer- meetin' 
held  t'   keep  Archibald   Shott  t'  Jump   Harbor. 

io8 


THE   SQUALL 


The  lads  o'  the  place  an'  the  erew  o'  the  Give 
an  Take  turned  to  an'  jerked  that  house  across 
the  bay  t'  Deep  Cove  Hke  a  gale  o'  wind.  They 
wasn't  nothin'  left  o'  Archibald  Shott  at  Jump 
Harbor  but  the  bare  spot  on  the  rocks  where  the 
house  used  t'  be.  When  'twas  all  over  with,  Arch 
come  back  t'  say  good-bye;  an'  he  took  Slow  Jim 
Tool  t'  the  hills,  an',  'Jim,'  says  he,  'you  knows 
where  my  house  used  t'  be.?  Hist!'  says  he,  'I 
wants  t'  tell  you :  is  you  able  t'  hold  a  secret  \ 
Well,'  says  he,  *I  wouldn't  go  pokin'  'round  in 
the  dirt  there.  You  leave  that  place  be.  They 
isn't  nothin'  there  that  you'd  like  t'  have.  Un- 
derstand }  Don't  go  pokin  'round  in  the  dirt 
where  my  oV  house  was.  But  if  you  does,'  says 
he,  *an'  if  you  finds  anything  you  wants,  why, 
you  can  keep  it,  and  not  be  obliged  t'  me.'  So 
Jim  begun  pokin'  'round;  being  human,  he  jus' 
couldn't  help  it.  He  poked  an'  poked,  till  they 
wasn't  no  sense  in  pokin'  no  more;  an'  then  he 
'lowed  he'd  give  'Lizabeth  a  wonderful  s'prise  in 
the  spring,  no  matter  what  it  cost.  'Archibald 
Shott,'  says  he,  'is  a  kind  man.  You  jus'  wait, 
'Lizabeth,  an'  see.'  And  in  the  spring,  sure 
enough,  off  he  sot  for  Chain  Tickle,  where  ol' 
Jonas  Williams  have  a  shop  an'  a  store,  t'  fetch 
'Lizabeth  a  pink  ostrich  feather  she'd  seed  in 

109 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Jonas's  trader  two  year  afore.  She  'lowed  that 
'twas  a  wonderful  sight  o'  money  t'  lay  out  on  a 
feather,  when  he  got  back;  but  he  says:  'Oh  no, 
'Lizabeth;  the  money  wasn't  no  trouble  t'  get.' 

"*No  trouble  ?'  says  she. 

"*Why,  no,'  says  he;  *no  trouble  t'  speak  of. 
I  jus'  sort  o'  poked  around  an'  picked  it  up.' 

"About  a  week  after  'Lizabeth  All  had  first 
wore  that  pink  feather  t'  meetin'  a  constable 
come  ashore  from  the  mail-boat  an'  tapped  Slow 
Jim  Tool  on  the  shoulder. 

" '  What  you  do  that  for  ?'  says  Jim. 

"*In  the  Queen's  name!'  says  the  constable. 

"*My  God!'  says  Jim.  *What  is  I  been 
doin'  ?' 

" '  Counterfeitin','  says  the  constable. 

"*Counter-fittin'!'  says  Jim.     'What's  that?' 

"They  says,"  Tumm  sighed,  "that  poor  Jim 
Tool  was  wonderful  s'prised  t'  be  give  two  year 
in  chokee  t'  St.  John's  for  passin'  lead  shillin's; 
for  look  you!     Jim  didn't  know  they  was  lead." 

"And  Elizabeth.?"  I  ventured. 

"Up  an' died,"  he  drawled 

"Well,  now,"  Tumm  proceeded,  "'twas  three 
year  later  that  Jim  Tool  an'  Archibald  Shott  an' 
me  was  shipped  from  Twillingate  aboard  the  Billy 

no 


THE   SQUALL 


Boy  t'  fish  the  Labrador  below  Mugford  along 
o'  Skipper  Alex  Tuttle.  Jim  Tool  was  more 
slow  an'  solemn  an'  puzzled  'n  ever  I  knowed 
un  t'  be  afore;  an'  he  was  so  wonderful  shy  o' 
Archibald  Shott  that  Arch  'lowed  he'd  have  the 
superstitious  shudders  if  it  kep'  up  much  longer. 
*  If  he'd  only  talk/  says  Arch, '  an'  not  creep  about 
this  here  schooner  like  a  deaf  an'  dumb  ghost!' 
But  Jim  said  nar  a  word;  he  just'  kep'  a  gray  eye 
on  Arch  till  Arch  lost  a  deal  more  sleep  'n  he  got. 
*He  irks  me!'  says  Arch.  "Tisn't  a  thing  a  re- 
ligious man  would  practise;  an'  I'll  do  something/ 
says  he,  't'  stop  it!'  Howbeit,  things  was  easy 
till  the  Billy  Boy  slipped  past  Mother  Burke  in 
fair  weather  an'  run  into  a  dirty  gale  from  the 
north  off  the  upper  French  shore.  The  wind 
jus'  seemed  t'  sweep  up  all  the  ice  they  was  on 
the  Labrador  an'  jam  it  again'  the  coast  at  Black 
Bight.  There's  where  we  was,  sir,  when  things 
cleaned  up;  gripped  in  the  ice  a  hundred  fathom 
off  the  Black  Bight  cliffs.  An'  there  we  stayed, 
lifted  from  the  pack,  lyin'  at  fearsome  list,  till 
the  wind  turned  westerly  an'  began  t'  loosen  up 
the  ice. 

"'Twas  after  noon  of  a  gray  day  when  the 
Billy  Boy  dropped  back  in  the  water.  They  was 
a  bank  o'  blue-black  cloud  hangin'  high  beyond 

III 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

the  cliffs;  an'  I  'lowed  t'  the  skipper,  when  I  seed 
it,  that  'twould  blow  with  snow  afore  the  day 
was  out. 

"'Ay,'  says  the  skipper;  *an'  'twon't  be  long 
about  it.' 

"Jus'  then  Slow  Jim  Tool  knocked  Archibald 
Shott  flat  on  his  back.  Lord,  what  a  thump! 
Looked  t'  me  as  if  Archibald  Shott  might  be 
damaged. 

"*Ecod!  Jim,'  says  I,  *what  you  go  an'  do  that 
for?' 

"'Why,'  says  Jim,  *he  said  a  bad  word  again* 
the  name  o'  'Lizabeth.' 

"'Never  done  nothin'  o'  the  kind,'  says  Arch. 
*I  was  jus'  'bidin'  here  amidships  lookin'  at  the 
weather.' 

"*Yes,  you  did.  Arch,'  says  Jim;  *you  done  it 
in  the  forecastle  —  las'  Wednesday.  I  beared 
you  as  I  come  down  the  ladder.' 

" '  Don't  you  knock  me  down  again,'  says  Arch. 
'That  hurtP 

"'Well,'  says  Jim,  *you  keep  your  tongue  off 
poor  'Lizabeth.' 

"By  this  time,  sir,  the  lads  was  all  come  up 
from  the  forecastle.  We  wasn't  much  hands  at 
fightin',  in  them  days,  on  the  Labrador  craft, 
bein'  all  friends  t'gether;  an'  a  little  turn  up  on 

112 


"  YOU    KEEP    YOUR    TONGUE    OFF    POOR    'lIZABETH  " 


THE    SQUALL 


deck  sort  o'  scared  the  crew.  Made  un  shy,  too; 
they  hanged  about,  backin'  an'  shufflin',  like 
kids  in  a  parlor,  fair  itchin'  along  o'  awkwardness, 
grinnin'  a  deal  wider'n  was  called  for,  but  sayin' 
nothin'  for  fear  o'  drawin'  more  attention  'n 
they  could  well  dodge.  Skipper  Alex  he  laughed; 
then  I  cackled  a  bit — an'  then  off  went  the  crew 
in  a  big  he-haw.  I  seed  Archibald  Shott  turn 
white  an'  twitch-lipped,  an'  I  minds  me  now,  sir, 
that  he  fidgeted  somewhat  about  his  hip;  but 
bein'  all  friends  aboard,  sir,  shipped  from  near- 
by harbors,  why,  it  jus'  didn't  jump  into  my  mind 
that  he  was  up  t'  anything  more  deadly  than 
givin*  a  hitch  to  his  trousers.  How  should  it  ? 
We  wasn't  used  t'  brawls  aboard  the  Billy  Boy. 
But  whatever,  Archibald  Shott  crep'  for'ard  a 
bit,  till  he  was  close  'longside,  an'  then  bended 
down  t*  do  up  the  lashin'  of  his  shoe:  which  he 
kep'  at,  sir,  fumblin'  like  a  baby,  till  Jim  looked 
off  t'  the  clouds  risin'  over  the  Black  Bight  cliffs 
an'  'lowed  'twould  snow  like  wool  afore  the  hour 
was  over.  Then,  *Will  she?'  says  Arch;  an' 
with  that  he  drawed  his  splittin'-knife  an'  leaped 
like  a  lynx  on  Slow  Jim  Tool.  I  seed  the  knife  in 
the  air,  sir— seed  un  come  down  point  foremost 
on  Jim's  big  chest— an'  beared  a  frosty  tinkle 
when   the   broken   blade   struck   the   deck.     It 

113 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

didn't  seem  natural,  sir;  not  on  the  deck  o'  the 
Billy  Boyy  where  we  was  all  friends  aboard,  raised 
in  near-by  harbors. 

"Anyhow,  Slow  Jim  squealed  like  a  pig  an* 
clapped  a  hand  to  his  heart;  an'  Arch  jumped 
back  t'  the  rail,  where  he  stood  with  muscles 
drawed  an'  arms  open  for  a  grapple,  fair  drillin' 
holes  in  Jim  with  his  little  green  eyes. 

"'Ouch!'  says  Jim;  'that  wasn't  fair.  Arch!* 

"Arch's  lips  jus'  lifted  away  from  his  teeth  in  a 
ghastly  sort  o'  grin. 

"'Eh?'  says  Jim.  'What  you  want  t'  do  a 
dirty  trick  like  that  for  ?' 

"Arch  didn't  seem  t'  have  no  answer  ready: 
jus'  stood  there  eyin'  Jim,  stock  still  as  a  wooden 
figger-head,  'cept  that  he  shivered  an'  gulped  an' 
licked  his  blue  lips  with  a  tongue  that  I  'lowed 
t'  be  as  dry  as  sand-paper.  Seemed  t'  me,  sir, 
when  his  muscles  begun  t'  slack  an'  his  eyes  t* 
shift,  that  he  was  more  scared  'n  any  decent  man 
ought  ever  t'  get.  But  he  didn't  say  nothin';  nor 
no  more  did  nobody  else.  Wasn't  nothin'  t'  say. 
There  we  was,  all  friends  aboard,  reared  in  near- 
by harbors.  Didn't  seem  natural  t'  be  stewin* 
in  a  mess  o'  hate  like  that.  Look  you!  we  knowed 
Archibald  Short  an'  Slow  Jim  Tool:  knowed  un, 
stripped  an'  clothed,  body  an'  soul,  an'  had,  sir, 

114 


THE   SQUALL 


since  they  begun  t'  toddle  the  roads  o'  Jump 
Harbor.  Knowed  un  ?  Why,  down  along  afore 
the  Lads'  Hope  went  ashore  on  the  Barnyard 
Islands,  I  slep'  along  o'  Jim  Tool  an'  poulticed 
Archibald  Shaft's  boils!  Didn't  seem  t'  me,  sir, 
when  Jim  took  off  his  jacket  an'  opened  his  shirt 
that  they  was  anything  more'n  sorrow  for  Arch's 
temper  brewin'  in  his  heart.  Murder  ?  Never 
thunk  o'  murder;  wasn't  used  enough  t'  murder. 
I  'lowed,  though,  that  Jim  didn't  Uke  the  sight 
o'  the  cut  where  the  knife  had  broke  on  a  rib;  an* 
I  'lowed  he  hked  the  feel  of  his  blood  still  less,  for 
he  got  white  an'  stupid  an'  disgusted  when  his 
fingers  touched  it,  jus'  as  if  he  might  be  sea-sick 
any  minute,  an'  he  shook  hisself  an'  coughed,  sir, 
jus'  like  a  dog  eatin'  grass. 

"*Tumm,'  says  he,  *you  got  a  knife?' 

"*  Don't  'low  no  one,'  says  I,  *t'  clean  a  pipe 
'ith  my  knife.' 

"'No,'  says  he;  *a  sheath-knife?' 

"'Left  un  below,'  says  L     *What  you  want  un 
for?' 

"'Jus'  a  little  job,'  says  he. 

"'What  kind  of  a  job  ?'  says  L 

"*Oh,'  says  he,  'jus'  a  little  job  I  got  t'  do!' 

"Seemed  nobody  had  a  knife,  so  Jim  Tool 
fetched  his  own  from  below. 

"5 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"'Find  un  ?'  says  I. 

"'Not  my  bes'  one,'  says  he.  *  Jus'  my  second 
bes'/ 

"Skipper  Alex  'lowed  'twould  snow  like  goose 
feathers  afore  half  an  hour  was  out,  but,  some- 
how, sir,  nobody  cared,  though  the  wind  was 
breakin'  off  shore  in  saucy  puffs  an'  the  ice  pack 
was  goin'  abroad. 

"  Jim  Tool  feeled  the  edge  of  his  knife.  *  Isn't 
my  bes'  one,'  says  he.  *I  got  a  new  one  some- 
wheres.' 

"  I  'lowed  he  was  a  bit  out  o'  temper  with  the 
knife;  an'  it  did  look  sort  o'  foul  sir,  along  o* 
overuse  an'  neglect. 

"'Greasy,'  says  he,  wipin'  the  blade  on  his 
boot;  *  wonderful  greasy!  Isn't  much  use  no 
more.  Wisht  I  had  my  bes*  one.  This  here,' 
says  he,  *is  got  three  big  nicks.  But,  anyhow. 
Arch,'  says  he, '  I  won't  hurt  you  no  more'n  I  can 
help!' 

"Then,  sir,  knife  in  hand  an'  murder  hot  in 
his  heart,  he  bore  down  on  Archibald  Shott. 
'Twas  all  over  in  a  flash:  Arch,  lean  an'  nimble  as 
a  imp,  leaped  the  rail  an'  put  off  over  the  ice 
toward  the  Black  Bight  cliffs,  with  Slow  Jim 
in  chase.  Skipper  Alex  whistled  'Whew!'  an' 
looked  perfeckly  stupid  along  o'  s'prise;  whereon, 

ii6 


THE   SQUALL 


sir,  havin'  come  to  his  senses  of  a  sudden,  he  let 
out  a  whoop  Hke  a  siren  whistle  an'  vaulted  over- 
side. Then  me,  sir;  then  the  whole  bally  crew! 
In  jus'  a  wink  'twas  follow  my  leader  over  the 
pans  t'  save  Archibald  Shott  from  slaughter: 
scramble  an'  leap,  sir,  sHp  an'  splash — across  the 
pans  an'  over  the  pools  an'  lanes  o'  water. 

"I  'low  the  skipper  might  o'  overhauled  Jim 
an  he  hadn't  missed  his  leap  an'  gone  overhead 
'longside.  As  for  me,  sir,  wind  an'  legs  denied 
me. 

"*Hol'  on,  Jim!'  sings  L  'Wait  for  mer 
"But  Jim  wasn't  heedin'  what  was  behind; 
I  'low,  sir,  what  with  hate  an'  the  rage  o'  years, 
he  wasn't  thinkin'  o'  nothin'  'cept  t'  get  a  knife  in 
the  vitals  o'  Archibald  Shott  so  deep  an'  soon  as 
he  was  able.  Seemed  he'd  do  it,  too,  in  quick 
time,  for  jus'  that  minute  Archibald  slipped;  his 
legs  sailed  up  in  the  air,  an'  he  landed  on  his 
shoulders  an'  rolled  off  into  the  water.  But  God 
bein'  on  the  watch  jus'  then,  sir,  Jim  leaped 
short  hisself  from  the  pan  he  was  on,  an'  afore  he 
could  crawl  from  the  sea  Arch  was  out  an'  lopin' 
like  a  hare  over  better  goin'.  Jim  was  too  quick 
for  me  t'  nab;  I  was  fetched  up  all  standin'  by 
the  lane  he'd  leaped — ^while  he  sailed  on  in  chase 
o'  Arch.     An'  meantime  the  crew  was  scattered 

117 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

north  an'  south,  every  man  Jack  makin'  over  the 
ice  for  the  Black  Bight  cliffs  by  the  course  that 
looked  best,  so  that  Arch  was  drove  in  on  the 
rocks.  I  'lowed  'tv^ould  be  over  in  a  trice  if 
somebody  didn't  leap  on  the  back  o'  Slow  Jim 
Tool;  but  in  this  I  was  mistook:  for  Archibald 
Shott,  bein'  hunted  an'  scared  an'  nimble,  didn't 
wait  at  the  foot  o'  the  cliff  for  Jim  Tool's  greasy 
knife.  He  shinned  on  up — up  an'  up  an'  up — 
higher  an'  higher — ^with  his  legs  an'  arms  sprawled 
out  an'  workin'  like  a  spider.  Nor  neither  did 
Jim  stop  short.  No,  sir!  He  slipped  his  knife 
in  his  belt — an'  up  shinned  he! 

"'Jim,  you  fool!'  sings  I,  when  I  come  below, 
'you  come  down  out  o'  that!' 

"But  Jim  jus'  kep'  mountin'. 

"*Jimr  says  I.  *You  want  t'  fall  an'  get 
hurted  ?' 

"Up  comes  the  skipper  in  a  proper  state  o' 
wrath  an'  salt  water.  'Look  you,  Jim  Tool!' 
sings  he;  'you  want  t'  break  your  neck  ?' 

"I  'lowed  maybe  Jim  was  too  high  up  t'  hear. 

"'Tumm,'  says  the  skipper,  'that  fool  will 
split  Archibald  Shott  once  he  gets  un.  You  go 
'round  by  Tatter  Brook,'  says  he,  'an'  climb  the 
hill  from  behind.  This  foolishness  is  got  t'  be 
stopped.     Goin'  easy,'  says  he,  'you'll  beat  Shott 

ii8 


THE  SQUALL 


t'  the  top  o'  the  clifF.  He'll  be  over  first;  let  un 
go.  But  when  Tool  comes,*  says  he,  *why,  you 
got  a  pair  o'  arms  there  that  can  clinch  a  argu- 
ment.* 

"*Ay,*  says  I;  *but  what  *11  come  o*  Archibald  ?* 
"*Well,*  says  the  skipper,  *it  looks  t*  me  as  if 
he'd  be  content  jus*  t*  keep  on  goin'.* 

"  In  this  way,  sir,  I  come  t'  the  top  o'  the  cliff. 
They  was  signs  o'  weather — a  black  sky,  puffs  o' 
wind  jumpin*  out,  scattered  flakes  o*  snow — but 
they  wasn't  no  sign  o*  Archibald  Shott.  They 
was  quite  a  reach  o*  brink,  sir,  high  enough  from 
the  shore  ice  t*  make  a  stomach  squirm;  an'  it 
took  a  deal  o'  peepin'  an*  stretchin'  t*  spy  out 
Arch  an*  Jim.  Then  I  'lowed  that  Arch  never 
would  get  over;  for  I  seed,  sir — lyin'  there  on  the 
edge  o*  the  cliff,  with  more  head  an*  shoulders 
stickin*  out  in  space  than  I  cares  t*  dream  about 
o'  these  quiet  nights  —  I  seed  that  Archibald 
Shott  was  cotched  an*  could  get  no  further. 
There  he  was,  sir,  stickin*  like  plaster  t*  the  face 
o'  the  cliff,  some  thirty  feet  below,  finger-nails  an' 
feet  dug  into  the  rock,  his  face  like  a  year-old 
corpse.  I  sung  out  a  hearty  word  —  though, 
God  knows!  my  heart  was  empty  o*  cheer — an* 
I  heard  some  words  rattle  in  Shott's  dry  throat, 
but  couldn't  understand;  an*  then,  sir,  overcome 
9  119 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

by  space  an'  that  face  o'  fear,  I  rolled  back  on 
the  frozen  moss,  sick  an'  limp.  When  I  looked 
again  I  seed,  so  far  below  that  they  looked  like 
fat  swile  on  the  ice,  the  skipper  an'  the  crew  o' 
the  Billy  Boy,  starin'  up^  with  the  floe  an'  black 
sea  beyond,  lyin*  like  a  steep  hill  under  the  gray 
sky.  Midway,  swarmin'  up  with  cautious  hands 
an'  feetj  come  Slow  Jim  Tool,  his  face  as  white 
an'  cold  as  the  ice  below,  thin-lipped,  wolf-eyed, 
his  heart  as  cruel  now,  sir,  his  slow  mind  as  keen, 
his  muscles  as  terlse  ah*  eager,  as  a  brute's  on 
the  hunt. 

"*Jimr  says  I.     *Oh,  Jim!' 

"Jim  jus'  cdme  on  up. 

"'Jim!'  says  I.     *Is  that^^owP 

"Seemed,  sir,  it  jus'  couldn't  be.  Not  Jim! 
Why,  I  nursed  Jim!  I  tossed  Jimmie  Tool  t' 
the  ceilin'  when  he  was  a  mushy  infant  too  young 
t'  do  any  more'n  jus'  gurgle.  Why,  at  that 
minute,  sir,  like  a  dream  in  the  gray  space  below, 
I  could  see  Jinlmie  Tool's  yellow  head  an'  fat 
white  legs  an'  calico  dresses,  jus'  as  they  used 
t'  be. 

"'Jim,'  says  I,  *it  can't  be  you.  Not  you, 
Jim,'  says  I;  *not  youF 

"*Tumm,'  says  he,  'is  he  stuck?  C^n't  he 
get  no  farther?' 

120 


THE   SQUALL 


"Jim! 

"'If  he  canV  says  he,  'I  got  un!  I'll  knife 
un,  Tumm,'  says  he,  *jus'  in  a  minute.' 

"'Don't  try  it,'  says  I. 

"'Don't  you  fret,  Tumm,'  says  hp.  *  Isn't 
no  fear  o'  me  fallin'.     /'m  all  right.' 

"An'  this  was  Jimrnie  Tool!  Why,  sir,  I 
knowed  Jimmie  Tool  when  he  was  a  lad  o' 
twelve.  A  hearty  lad,  sir,  towheaded  an'  stout 
an*  strong  an'  lively,  with  freckles  on  his  nose,  an* 
a  warm,  kind,  white-toothed  little  grin  for  such 
as  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Wasn't  nobody 
ever,  man,  woman,  or  child,  that  touched  Jimmie 
Tool  in  kindness  *ithout  bein*  loved.  He  jus* 
couldn*t  help  it.  You  jus'  be  good  t'  Jimmie 
Tool,  you  jus*  put  a  hand  on  his  head  an*  smile, 
an'  Jimmie  *lowed  they  was  no  man  like  you. 

*  You  got  a  awful  kind  heart,  lad,*  says  I,  when  he 
was  twelve;  *an*  when  you  grows  up,*  says  I, 

*  I  'low  the  folk  o'  this  coast  will  be  glad  you  was 
born.*  An'  here  was  Jimmie  Tool,  swarmin*  up 
the  Black  Bight  cliffs,  bent  on  the  splittin*  o* 
Archibald  Shott,  which  same  Archibald  I  had 
took  t'  Sunday-school,  by  the  wee,  soft  hand  of 
un,  many  a  time,  when  he  was  a  flabby-fleshed, 
chatterin'  rollypolly  o'  four!  Bein'  jus'  a  ol'  fool, 
sir — bein'  jus'  a  soft  ol'  fool  hangin'  over  the 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Black  Bight  cliffs — I  wisht,  somehow,  that  little 
Jimmie  Tool  had  never  needed  t'  grow  up. 

"*Jimmie,"  says  I,  *what  you  really  goin'  t' 
do?' 

"'Well/  says  he,  'jus'  a  minute.' 

"'Very  well,*  says  I;  'but  you  better  leave  poor 
Arch  alone.' 

"  *  How's  his  grip  ?'  says  he. 

"'None  too  good,*  says  Ij  *a  touch  would  dis- 
lodge un.* 

"  If  I  cotched  un  by  the  ankle,  then,*  says  he, 
'  I  'low  I  could  jerk  un  loose.' 

" '  You  hadn't  better  try,*  says  Arch. 

"'Jim,*  says  I,  'does  you  know  how  high  up 
you  really  is  ?* 

"Jim  jus'  reached  as  quick  as  a  snake  for 
Archibald  Shott's  foot,  but  come  somewhat  short 
of  a  grip.  'Shoot  it!'  says  he,  'I  can  on'y  touch 
un  with  my  finger.     I'll  have  t*  climb  higher.' 

"Up  he  come  a  inch  or  so. 

"'You  try  that  again,  Jim,'  says  Arch,  'an' 
I'll  kick  you  in  the  head.* 

"'You  can't,*  says  Jim;  'you  dassn't  move  a 
foot  from  that  ledge.* 

"'Try  an'  see,*  says  Arch. 

*"I  can  see  very  well.  Arch,  b'y,'  says  Jim. 
*  If  you  wriggles  a  toe,  you'll  fall.' 

122 


THE   SQUALL 


"Then,  sir,  I  cotched  ear  o'  the  skipper  singin' 
out  from  below.  Seemed  so  far  down  when  my 
eyes  dropped  that  my  fingers  digged  theirselves 
deep  in  the  moss  and  clawed  around  for  better 
grip.  They  isn't  no  beach  below,  sir,  nor  broken 
rock,  as  you  knows;  the  cliffs  rise  from  deep 
water.  Skipper  and  crew  was  on  the  ice;  an'  I 
seed  that  the  wind  had  blowed  the  pans  off  shore. 
Wind  was  up  now:  blowin'  clean  t*  sea,  with 
flakes  o'  snow  swirlin*  in  the  lee  o'  the  cliff.  It 
fair  scraped  the  moss  I  was  lyin*  on.  Seemed  t' 
me,  sir,  that  if  it  blowed  much  higher  I'd  need 
my  toes  for  hangin'  on.  A  gust  cotched  off  my 
cap  an*  swep'  it  over  the  sea.  Lord!  it  made  me 
shiver  t'  watch  the  course  o*  that  ol'  cloth  cap! 
Blow  ?  Oh,  ay — blowin' !  An'  I  'lowed  that  the 
skipper  was  nervous  in  the  wind.  He  sung  out 
again,  waved  his  arms,  pointed  t*  the  sea,  an 
then  ducked  his  head,  tucked  in  his  elbows,  an 
put  off  for  the  schooner,  with  the  crew  scurryin 
like  weak-flippered  swile  in  his  wake.  Sort  o 
made  me  laugh,  sir;  they  looked  so  round  an 
squat  an'  short-legged,  'way  down  below,  sprawl- 
in'  over  the  ice  in  mad  haste  t'  board  the  Billy 
Boy  afore  she  drifted  off  in  the  gale.  Laugh .? 
Ay,  sir!  I  laughed.  Didn't  seem  t'  me,  sir,  that 
Jim  Tool  really  meant  t'  kill  Archibald  Shott. 

123 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Jus'  seemed,  somehow,  like  a  rough  game,  with 
somebody  hke  t'  get  hurted  if  they  kep'  it  up. 
So  I  laughed;  but  I  gulped  that  laugh  back  t' 
my  stomach,  sir,  when  I  slapped  eyes  again  on 
Archibald  Shott! 

"'Don't  do  that,  Arch,'  says  I.     'You'll  fall!' 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'Jim  says  I  can't  kick  un  in 
the  head.' 

'"No  more  you  can/  sdys  Jim;  'an'  you  dassn't 
tiy.' 

"Arch  was  belly  foremost  t'  the  cliff — toes  on 
a  ledge  an'  hands  gripped  aloft.  He  was  able 
t'  look  up,  but  made  poor  work  o'  lookin'  down 
over  his  shoulder;  an'  I  'lowed,  him  not  bein' 
able  t'  see  Jim,  that  the  minute  he  reached  out  a 
foot  he'd  be  cotched  an'  ripped  from  his  hold,  if 
Jim  really  wanted  t'  do  it.  Anyhow,  he  got  his 
fingers  in  a  lower  crack.  'Twas  a  wonderful 
strain  t'  put  on  any  man's  hands  an'  arms:  I 
could  see  his  forearms  shake  along  of  it.  But 
safe  at  this,  he  loosed  one  foot  from  the  ledge,  let 
his  body  sink,  art'  begun  t'  kick  out  after  Jim, 
jus'  feelin'  about  like  a  blind  man^  with  his  face 
jammed  again'  the  rock.  Jus'  in  a  minute  Jim 
reached  for  that  foot.  Cdtched  it,  too;  but  no 
sooner  did  Arch  feel  them  fingers  cldsin*  in  than 
he  kicked  out  for  life  an'  got  loose.     The  wrench 

124 


THE   SQUALL     

near  overset  Jim.  He  made  a  quiek  grab  for  the 
rock  an'  got  a  hand  there  jus*  in  time.  Jim 
laughed.  It  may  be  that  he  thunk  Arch  would 
be  satisfied  an'  draw  up  t'  rest.  But  Arch  'lowed 
for  one  more  kick;  an'  this,  sir,  cotched  Slow  Jim 
Tool  fair  on  the  cheek  when  poor  Jim  wasn't 
lookin'.  Must  o'  hurt  Jim.  When  his  head 
fell  back,  his  face  was  all  screwed  up,  jus'  like  a 
child's  in  pain.  I  seed,  too,  that  his  muscles  was 
slack,  his  knees  givin'  way,  an'  that  his  right  hand, 
with  the  fingers  spread  out  crooked,  was  clawin* 
for  a  hold,  ecod !  out  in  the  air,  where  they  wasn't 
nothin'  but  thin  wind  t'  grasp.  Then  I  didn't 
see  no  more,  but  jus'  lied  flat  on  the  moss,  my 
eyes  fallen  shut,  limp  an'  sweaty  o'  body,  waitin' 
t'  come  to,  as  from  the  grip  o'  the  Old  Hag. 

"When  I  looked  again,  sir,  Archibald  Shott 
had  both  feet  toed  back  on  the  ledge,  an'  Slow 
Jim  Tool,  below,  was  still  stickin'  like  a  barnacle 
t'  the  cliff. 

"  *  Jim,'  says  I,  *  if  you  don't  stop  this  foolishness 
I'll  drop  a  rock  on  you.* 

"'This  won't  do,'  says  he. 

"'No,*  says  I;  'it  %uon'tr 

*"I  'low,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'that  I  better  swarm 
above  an*  come  down.* 

'"What  for?'  says  I. 

12^ 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"'Step  on  his  fingers,*  says  he. 

" Then,  sir,  the  squall  broke;  a  rush  an' howl 
o'  northerly  wind!  Come  like  a  pack  o*  mad 
ghosts:  a  break  from  the  spruce  forest — a  flight 
over  the  barren — a  great  leap  into  space.  Blue- 
black  clouds,  low  an*  thick,  rushin*  over  the  cliff, 
spilt  dusk  an*  snow  below.  *Twas  as  though  the 
Lord  had  cast  a  black  blanket  o*  night  in  haste  an* 
anger  upon  the  sea.  An*  I  never  knowed  the 
snow  so  thick  afore;  'twas  jus'  emptied  out  on  the 
world  like  bags  o'  flour.  Dusty,  frosty  snow;  it 
got  in  my  eyes  an'  nose  an*  throat.  *Twasn*t  a 
minute  afore  sea  an*  shore  was  wiped  from  sight 
an*  Jim  Tool  an*  Archibald  Shott  was  turned  t* 
black  splotches  in  a  mist.  I  crabbed  away  from 
the  brink.  Wasn't  no  sense,  sir,  in  lyin*  there  in 
the  push  an*  tug  o*  the  wind.  An*  I  sot  me  down 
t*  wait;  an*  by-an'-by  I  heard  a  cry,  a  dog*s  bark 
o*  terror,  from  deep  in  the  throat,  sir,  that  wasn*t 
no  scream  o*  the  gale.  So  I  crawled  for'ard,  on 
hands  an*  knees  that  bore  me  ill,  t*  peer  below,  but 
seed  no  form  o*  flesh  an'  blood,  nor  got  a  human 
answer  t'  my  hail.  I  turned  again  t'  wait;  an' 
I  faced  inland,  where  was  the  solemn  forest,  far 
oflFan'  hid  in  a  swirl  o'  snow,  with  but  the  passion 
of  a  gale  t'  bear.  An'  there  I  stood,  sir,  turned 
away  from  the  rage  o'  hearts  that  beat  in  breasts 

126 


THE   SQUALL 


like  ours,  until  the  squall  failed,  an'  the  snow 
thinned  t'  playful  flakes,  an*  the  gray  clouds, 
broken  above  the  wilderness,  soaked  crimson 
from  the  sun  like  blood. 

"'Twas  Jim  Tool  that  roused  me. 

"*That  you,  Jim?'  says  L 

"'Ay*  says  he;  *you  been  waitin'  here  for  me, 
Tumm  ?* 

"*Ay/  says  I;  *been  waitin'.* 

"* Tired?'  says  he. 

"'No,*  says  I;  *not  tired.' 

"There  come  then,  sir,  a  sort  o*  smile  upon 
him — ^fond  an'  grateful  an'  childlike.  I  seed  it 
glow  in  the  pits  where  his  eyes  was.  *It  was 
kind,'  says  he,  *t*  wait.  You  always  was  kind 
t'  me,  Tumm.' 

"*Oh  no,'  says  I;  'not  kind.* 

"*Tumm,*  says  he,  kickin'  at  a  rock  in  the 
snow,  *I  done  it,*  says  he,  *by  the  ankle.* 

"'Then,'  says  I,  *God  help  you,  Jiml* 

"He  come  close  t'  me,  sir,  jus'  like  he  used  t' 
do,  when  he  was  a  lad,  in  trouble. 

"'Keep  ofF,  Jim!' says  L 

"'Why  so?'  says  he.  'Isn't  you  goln'  t*  be 
friends  'ith  me  any  more  ?' 

"  I  was  afraid.     '  Keep  clear!'  says  L 

" '  Oh,  why  so  ?'  says  he. 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

*"1 — I — don't  know!'  says  I.  *God  help  us 
all,  I  don't  know!' 

"Then  he  failed  prone,  sir,  an'  rolled  over  on 
his  back,  with  his  arms  flung  out,  as  if  now  he 
seed  the  blood  on  his  hands;  an'  he  squirmed  in 
the  snow,  sir,  like  a  worm  on  a  hook.  *  I  wisht  I 
hadn't  done  it!  Oh,  dear  God,'  says  he,  */ 
wtsht  I  hadn't  done  it!' 

"Ah,  poor  little  Jimmie  Tool! 

"  I  looked  away,  sir,  west'ard,  t'  where  the  sky 
had  broken  wide  its  gates.  Ah,  the  sun  had 
washed  the  crimson  blood-drip  from  the  clouds! 
'Twas  a  flood  o'  golden  light.  Colors  o'  heaven 
streamin'  through  upon  the  world!  But  yet 
so  far  away — beyond  the  forest,  and,  ay,  beyond 
the  farther  sea!  Maybe,  sir,  while  my  eyes 
searched  the  far-off^  sunlit  spaces,  that  my  heart 
fled  back  t'  fields  o'  time  more  distant  still.  I 
remembered  the  lad  that  was  Jimmie  Tool. 
Warm-hearted,  sir,  aglow  with  tender  wishes  for 
the  joy  o'  folk;  towheaded  an*  stout  an'  strong, 
straight  o'  body  an'  soul,  with  a  heart  lifted  high, 
it  seemed  t'  me,  from  the  reachin'  fingers  o'  sin. 
Wasn't  nobody  ever,  sir,  that  touched  Jimmie 
Tool  in  kindness  'ithout  bein'  loved.  *Ah, 
Jimmie,'  says  I,  when  I  looked  in  his  clear  gray 

128 


THE   SQUALL 

eyes,  'the  world  '11  be  glad,  some  day,  that  you 
was  born.  Wisht  I  was  a  lad  like  you,'  says  I, 
*an'  not  a  man  Hke  me.'  An'  he'd  cotch  hold  o' 
my  hand,  sir,  an'  say:  *Tumm,  you  is  wonderful 
good  t'  me.  I  'low  I'm  a  lucky  lad,*  says  he, 
*t'  have  a  friend  like  you.'  So  noW,  sit,  come 
back  t'  the  bleak  cliffs  o'  Black  Bight,  straight 
returned  from  the  days  of  his  childhood,  with  the 
golden  dust  o'  that  time  fresh  Upon  my  feet,  the 
rosy  light  of  it  in  my  eyes,  the  breath  o'  God  in 
my  heart,  I  kneeled  iri  the  show  beside  Jim  Tool 
an'  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"'Jimmie!'  says  L 

"He  would  not  take  his  hands  from  his  eyes. 

"*Hush!'  says  I,  for  I  had  forgot  that  he  was 
no  mote  a  child.     'Don't  cry!' 

"He  cotched  my  haild.  Sir,  jUs*  like  he  used 
t'  do. 

"'T'  me,'  says  I,  'you'll  always  be  the  same 
little  lad  you  Used  t'  be.' 

"It  eased  un:  poor  little  Jiinmie  Tool!" 

Tumm's  face  had  hot  relaxed.  'Twas  grihi 
as  ever.  But  I  Saw — and  turhed  away  —  that 
teats  were  upon  the  searhed,  bronzed  cheeks.  1 
listened  to  the  wind  blowing  over  Jurrip  Harbcir, 
and  felt  the  oppression  of  the  dark  night,  which 

129 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

lay  thick  upon  the  roads  once  known  to  the  feet 
of  this  gray-eyed  Jimmie  Tool.  My  faith  was 
turned  gray  by  the  tale.  "Ecod!"  Tumm  burst 
in  upon  my  musing,  misled,  perhaps,  by  this 
ancient  sorrow,  "I'm  glad  /  didn't  make  this 
damned  world!  An',  anyhow,"  he  continued, 
with  a  snap  of  indignation,  "what  happened  after 
that  was  all  done  as  among  men.  Wasn't  no 
cryin' — least  of  all  by  Jim  Tool.  When  the 
Billy  Boy  beat  back  t'  pick  us  up,  all  hands  turned 
out  t'  fish  Archibald  Shott  from  the  breakers, 
an*  then  we  stowed  un  away  in  a  little  place  by 
Tatter  Brook,  jus'  where  the  water  tumbles  down 
the  hill.  Jim  'lowed  he  might  as  well  be  took 
back  an'  hanged  in  short  order.  The  sooner,  he 
says,  the  better  it  would  suit.  'Lizabeth  was 
dead,  an'  Arch  was  dead,  an'  he  might  as  well 
go,  too.  Anyhow,  says  he,  he  ought  to.  But 
Skipper  Alex  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  Wasn't  no 
time,  says  he;  the  crew  couldn't  afford  to  lose 
the  v'y'ge;  an',  anyhow,  says  he,  Jim  wasn't 
in  no  position  t'  ask  favors.  So  'twas  late  in  the 
fall,  sir,  afore  Jim  was  give  into  the  hands  o' 
the  Tilt  Cove  constable.  Then  Jim  an*  me  an' 
the  skipper  an'  some  o'  the  crew  put  out  for  St. 
John's,  where  Jim  had  what  they  called  his  trial. 
An'  Jim  'lowed  that  if  the  jury  could  do  so  'ithout 

130 


THE   SQUALL 


drivin'  theirselves,  an'  would  jus'  order  un  hanged 
as  soon  as  convenient,  why,  he'd  be  'bliged. 
An'—" 

Tumm  paused. 

"Well?"  I  interrogated. 

"The  jury,"  Tumm  answered,  "jus*  wouldn't 

do  itr 

"And  Jimmie?" 

"Jus'fishin'." 

Poor  little  Jimmie  Tool! 


V 

THE    FOOL    OF   SKELETON  TICKLE 

WHEN  the  wheezy  little  mail-boat  rounded 
the  Liar's  Tombstone — that  gray,  immobile 
head,  forever  dwelling  upon  its  forgotten  tragedy 
— she  "opened"  Skeleton  Tickle;  and  this  was 
where  the  fool  was  born,  and  where  he  lived  his 
life,  such  as  it  was,  and,  in  the  end,  gave  it  up  in 
uttermost  disgust.  It  was  a  wretched  Newfound- 
land settlement  of  the  remoter  parts,  isolated 
on  a  stretch  of  naked  coast,  itself  lying  unap- 
preciatively  snug  beside  sheltered  water:  being 
but  a  congregation  of  stark  white  cottages  and 
turf  huts,  builded  at  haphazard,  each  aloof  from 
its  despairing  neighbor,  all  sticking  like  lean  in- 
crustations to  the  bare  brown  hills — habitations 
of  men,  to  be  sure,  which  elsewhere  had  surely 
relieved  the  besetting  dreariness  with  the  grace 
and  color  of  Hfe,  but  in  this  place  did  not  move 
the  gray,  unsmiling  prospect  of  rock  and  water. 

132 


THE   FOOL   OF   SKELETON    TICKLE 

The  day  was  clammy:  a  thin,  pervasive  fog  had 
drenched  the  w^hole  w^orld,  now  damp  to  the 
touch,  dripping  to  the  sight;  the  wind,  out  of 
temper  with  itself,  blew  cold  and  viciously,  fret- 
ting the  sea  to  a  swishing  lop,  in  which  the  har- 
bor punts,  anchored  for  the  day's  fishing  in  the 
shallows  over  Lost  Men  grounds,  were  tossed 
and  flung  about  in  a  fashion  vastly  nauseating 
to  the  beholder.  .  .  .  Poor  devils  of  men  and 
boys!  Toil  for  them,  dawn  to  dark;  with  every 
reward  of  labor — love  and  all  the  delights  of  life 
— changed  by  the  unhappy  lot:  turned  sordid, 
cheerless,  bestial. . . . 

"Ha!'*  interrupted  my  chalice  acquaintance, 
leaning  upon  the  rail  with  me.  "  I  am  ver'  good 
business  man.  Eh  ?  You  not  theenk  ?"  There 
was  a  saucy  challenge  in  this;  it  left  no  escape 
by  way  of  bored  credulity;  no  man  of  proper  feel- 
ing could  accept  the  boast  of  this  ingratiating, 
frowsy,  yellow-eyed  Syrian  peddler.  "Ha!"  he 
proceeded.  "You  not  theenk,  eh?  But  I  have 
tell  you — I — myself!  I  am  thee  bes'  business 
man  ih  Newf'un'lan'."  He  threw  back  his  head; 
regarded  me  with  pride  and  mystery,  eyes  half 
closed.  "No.?  Come,  I  tell  you!  I  am  thee 
mos'  bes'  business  mail  in  Newf'un'lan'.     Eh  i* 

133 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Not  so  ?  Ay,  I  am  thee  ver'  mos'  bes'  business 
man  in  all  thee  worl'.  I — Tanous  Shiva — I — IP* 
He  struck  his  breast.  "I  have  be  thee  man.  An' 
thee  mos*  fool — thee  mos'  beeg  fool — thee  mos* 
fear-ful  beeg  fool  in  all  thee  worl'  leeve  there. 
Ay,  zur;  he  have  leeve  there — dead  ahead — t* 
Skeleton  Teekle.  You  not  theenk  ?  Ha!  I  tell 
you — I  tell  you  now — a  mos'  won-dair-ful  fun-ee 
t'ing.  You  hark  ?  Ver'  well.  Ha !"  he  ex- 
claimed, clasping  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  de- 
light. "How  you  will  have  laugh  w'en  I  tell!" 
He  sobered.  "I  am  now,"  he  said,  solemnly, 
"  be-geen.     You  hark  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"First,"  he  continued,  gravely  important,  as 
one  who  discloses  a  mystery,  "  I  am  tell  you  thee 
name  of  thee  beeg  fool.  James  All — his  name. 
or  bach.  Ver'  ol'  bach.  Ver'  rich  man.  Ho! 
mos'  rich.  You  not  theenk  ?  Ver'  well.  I  am 
once  hear  tell  he  have  seven  lobster-tin  full  of 
gold.  Mygod!  I  am  mos'  put  crazy.  Lobster- 
tin — seven!  An'  he  have  half-bushel  of  silver 
dollar.  How  he  get  it  ^  Ver'  well.  His  gran'- 
father  work  ver'  hard;  his  father  work  ver'  hard; 
all  thee  gold  come  to  this  man,  an'  he  work  ver', 
ver'  hard.  They  work  fear-ful — in  thee  gale,  in 
thee  cold;  they  work,  work,  work,  for  thee  gold. 

134 


THE    FOOL   OF   SKELETON   TICKLE 

Many,  many  year  ago,  long  time  past,  thee  gold 
be-geen  to  have  save.  It  be-geen  to  have  save 
many  year  afore  I  am  born.  Eh  ?  Fun-ee 
t'ing!  They  work,  work,  work;  but  /  am  not 
work.  Oh  no!  I  am  leetle  baby.  They  save, 
save,  save;  but  /  am  not  save.  Oh  no!  I  am 
foolsh  boy,  in  Damascus.  Ver'  well.  By-'n*-by 
I  am  thee  growed  man,  an'  they  have  fill  thee 
seven  lobster-tin  with  thee  gold.  For  what  ? 
Eh  ?  I  am  tell  you  what  for.  Ha !  I  am 
show  you  I  am  ver'  good  business  man.  I  am 
thee  ver'  mos'  bes'  business  man  in  Newf'un'- 
lan'." 

My  glance,  quick,  suspicious,  was  not  of  the 
kindest,  and  it  caught  his  eye. 

"You  theenk  I  have  get  thee  gold  ?"  he  asked, 
archly.  "You  theenk  I  have  get  thee  seven 
lobster-tin .?  .  .  .  Mygod  1"  he  cried,  throwing  up 
his  hands  in  genuine  horror.  "You  theenk  I 
have  steal  thee  gold  ^.  No,  no!  I  am  ver'  hones' 
business  man.  I  say  my  prayer  all  thee  nights. 
I  geeve  nine  dollar  fifty  to  thee  Orth'dox  Church 
in  Washin'ton  Street  in  one  year.  I  am  thee 
mos'  hones'  business  man  in  Newf'un'lan' — 
an'"  (significantly),  "I  am  ver  good  business 
man."  v 

His  eyes  were  guileless.  .  .  . 
135 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

A  punt  slipped  past,  bound  out,  staggering 
over  a  rough  course  to  Lost  Men  grounds.  The 
spray,  rising  like  white  dust,  drenched  the  crew. 
An  old  man  held  the  sheet  and  steering-oar.  In 
the  bow  a  scrawny  boy  bailed  the  shipped  water 
— both  listless,  both  misshapen  and  ill  clad.  Bitter, 
toilsome,  precarious  work,  this,  done  by  folk  im- 
poverished in  all  things.  Seven  lobster-tins  of 
gold  coin!  Three  generations  of  labor  and  cruel 
adventure,  in  gales  and  frosts  and  famines,  had 
been  consumed  in  gathering  it.  How  much  of 
weariness  ?  How  much  of  pain  ?  How  much  of 
evil  ?  How  much  of  peril,  despair,  deprivation  .? 
And  it  was  true:  this  alien  peddler,  the  on-looker, 
had  the  while  been  unborn,  a  babe,  a  boy,  labor- 
ing not  at  all;  but  by  chance,  in  the  end,  he  had 
come,  covetous  and  sly,  within  reach  of  all  the 
fruit  of  this  malforming  toil.  .  .  . 

"Look!" 

I  followed  the  lean,  brown  finger  to  a  spot  on  a 
bare  hill — a  sombre  splash  of  black. 

"You  see?  Ver'  well.  One  time  he  leeve 
there — this  grea'  beeg  fool.  His  house  it  have 
be  burn  down.  How  ?  Ver'  well.  I  tell  you. 
All  people  want  thee  gold.  All  people — all — all! 
'Ha!'  theenk  a  boy.  *I  mus'  have  thee  seven 
lobster-tin  of  gold.     I  am  want  buy  thee  parasol 

136 


THE   FOOL   OF   SKELETON   TICKLE 

for  'Liza  Hull  nex'  time  thee  trader  come.  I 
mus'  have  thee  gold  of  ol'  Skip'  Jim.  If  I  not, 
then  Sam  Tom  will  have  buy  thee  parasol  from 
Tanous  Shiva.  'Liza  Hull  will  have  love  him 
an'  not  me.  I  mus*  have  'Liza  Hull  love  me. 
Oh,'  theenk  he,  'I  mus*  have  'Liza  Hull  love  me! 
I  am  not  can  leeve  'ithout  that  beeg  'Liza  Hull 
with  thee  red  cheek  an'  blue  eye!'  (Ver'  poor 
taste  thee  men  have  for  thee  girl  in  Newf'un'lan'.) 
*Ha!'  theenk  he,  *I  mus'  have  thee  gold.  I  am 
burn  thee  house  an'  get  thee  gold.  Then  I  have 
buy  thee  peenk  parasol  from  Tom  Shiva.'  Fool! 
Ver'  beeg  fool — that  boy.  Burn  thee  house  ?  Ver' 
poor  business.  Mos*  poor.  Burn  thee  house  of 
ol' Skip' Jim  .?     Pooh!" 

It  seemed  to  me,  too — so  did  the  sly  fellow 
bristle  and  puff  with  contempt — that  the  wretch- 
ed lad's  directness  of  method  was  most  repre- 
hensible; but  I  came  to  my  senses  later,  and  I 
have  ever  since  known  that  the  highwayman  was 
in  some  sort  a  worthy  fellow. 

"Ver*  well.  For  two  year  I  know  'bout  thee 
seven  lobster-tin  of  gold,  an'  for  two  year  I  make 
thee  great  frien'  along  o'  Skip'  Jim — thee  greates' 
frien';  thee  ver'  greates'  frien' — for  I  am  want 
thee  gold.  Aie!  I  am  all  thee  time  stop  with 
Skip'  Jim.     I  am  go  thee  church  with  Skip'  Jim. 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

I  am  kneel  thee  prayer  with  Skip'  Jim.  (I  am 
ver'  good  man  about  thee  prayer — ver*  good  busi- 
ness man.)  Skip'  Jim  he  theenk  me  thee  Jew, 
Pooh!  I  am  not  care.  I  say,  *Oh  yess.  Skip' 
Jim;  I  am  mos'  sad  about  what  thee  Jews  done. 
Bad  Jew  done  that.'  *You  good  Jew,  Tom,* 
he  say;  *I  am  not  hoi'  you  to  thee  'count.  Oh 
no,  Tom;  you  good  Jew,*  he  say.  *You  would 
not  do  what  thee  bad  Jews  done.'  *Oh  no,  Skip* 
Jim,'  I  say,  *I  am  ver*  good  man — ver*,  ver* 
good  man."* 

The  peddler  was  gravely  silent  for  a  space. 

"I  am  hones'  man,"  he  continued.  "I  am 
thee  mos*  hones'  business  man  in  Newf'un'lan'. 
So  I  mus'  have  wait  for  thee  gold.  Ah,"  he 
sighed,  "it  have  be  mos*  hard  to  wait.  I  am 
almos*  break  thee  heart.  But  I  am  hones*  man 
— ver*,  ver*  hones*  man — an*  I  mus*  have  wait. 
Now  I  tell  you  what  have  happen:  I  am  come 
ashore  one  night,  an'  it  is  thee  nex'  night  after 
thee  boy  have  bum  thee  house  of  Skip'  Jim  for 
the  peenk  parasol. 

"'Where  Skip'  Jim  house.?'  I  say. 

"'Bum  down,'  they  say. 

"'Bum  down!'  I  say.  *Oh,  my!  'Tis  sad. 
Have  thee  seven  lobster-tin  of  gold  be  los'  V 

"'All  spoil,*  they  say. 
138 


THE    FOOL   OF   SKELETON    TICKLE 

"I  am  not  theenk  what  they  mean.  *Oh, 
dear!'  I  say.     'Where  Skip'  Jim?* 

"*  You  fin'  Skip'  Jim  at  thee  Skip'  Bill  Tissol's 
house.' 

"*Oh,  my!'  I  say.  *I  am  mos'  sad.  I  am 
go  geeve  thee  pit-ee  to  poor  Skip'  Jim.'" 

The  fog  was  fast  thickening.  We  had  come 
close  to  Skeleton  Tickle;  but  the  downcast  cot- 
tages were  more  remote  than  they  had  been — 
infinitely  more  isolated. 

"Ver'  well.  I  am  fin'  Skip'  Jim.  He  sit  in 
thee  bes'  room  of  thee  Skip'  Bill  Tissol's  house. 
All  thee  'lone.  God  is  good!  Nobody  there. 
What  have  I  see?  Gold!  Gold!  The  heap  of 
gold!  The  beeg,  beeg  heap  of  gold!  I  am  not 
can  tell  you!" 

The  man  was  breathing  in  gasps;  in  the  pause 
his  jaw  dropped,  his  yellow  eyes  were  distended. 

"Ha!"  he  ejaculated.  "So  I  am  thank  thee 
dear,  good  God  I  am  not  come  thee  too  late. 
Gold!  Gold!  The  heap  of  gold!  I  am  pray 
ver'  hard  to  be  good  business  man.  I  am  close 
thee  eye  an'  pray  thee  good  God  I  am  be  ver' 
good  business  man  for  one  hour.  *Jus'  one 
hour,  O  my  God!'  I  pray.  *  Leave  me  be  ver', 
ver*  good  business  man  for  jus'  one  leet-tle  ver' 
small  hour.     I  am  geeve  one  hun'red   fifty  to 

139 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

thee  Orth'dox  Church  in  Washin'ton  Street,  O 
my  God,'  I  pray,  *if  I  be  mos'  ver'  good  busi- 
ness man  for  thee  one  hour!'  An'  I  shake  thee 
head  an'  look  at  thee  rich  ol'  Skip'  Jim  with 
thee  ver'  mos'  awful  sad  look  I  am  can. 

"*Oh,  Skip'  Jim!'  I  say.  *Fear-r-ful!  How 
have  your  house  cotch  thee  fire  .?' 

"'Thee  boy  of  Skip'  Elisha,'  he  say. 

"*Oh,  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say,  'what  have  you  do 
by  thee  wicked  boy  r 

"'What  have  I  do  .?'  he  say.  'He  cannot  have 
mend  thee  bad  business.  What  have  I  do .?  I 
am  not  wish  thee  hurt  to  thee  poor,  poor  boy.' 

"There  sit  thee  beeg  fool — thee  ver'  beeg  fool 
— ^thee  mos'  fearful  fool  in  all  thee  worl'.  Ol' 
Skip'  Jim  All — thee  beeg  fool!  There  he  sit, 
by  thee  'lone;  an'  the  heap  of  good  gold  is  on 
thee  table;  an'  the  candle  is  burnin';  an'  the  beeg 
white  wheesk-airs  is  ver'  white  an'  mos'  awful 
long;  an'  thee  beeg  ban's  is  on  thee  gold,  an'  thee 
salt-sores  from  thee  feeshin'  is  on  thee  ban's; 
an'  thee  tear  is  in  thee  ol'  eyes  of  ol'  Skip'  Jim 
All.  So  once  more  I  pray  thee  good  God  to  be 
made  ver'  good  business  man  for  thee  one  hour; 
an'  I  close  thee  door  ver'  tight. 

"*Oh,  Tom  Shiva,'  he  says,  *I  am  ruin'!' 

"'Ver'  sad,'  I  say.     'Oh,  dear!' 
140 


THE    FOOL   OF   SKELETON    TICKLE 

"*I  am  ruin' — ruin'!*  he  sav.  *Oh,  I  am 
ruin' !     What  have  I  do  ?' 

"*Ver',  ver'  sad,'  I  say.  *Oh,  Skip'  Jim,'  I 
say,  "tis  ver'  sad!' 

"'Ruin'!'  he  say.  *I  am  not  be  rich  no  more. 
I  am  ver'  poor  man,  Tom  Shiva.  I  am  once  be 
rich;  but  I  am  not  be  rich  no  more.' 

"I  am  not  know  what  he  mean.  'Not  be 
rich  no  more  ?'     I  say.     *  Not  be  rich  no  more  ?' 

"'Look!'  he  say.  'Look,  Tom  Shiva!  Thee 
gold !     Thee  seven  lobster-tin  of  gold !' 

'"I  am  see.  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say. 

"'Ah,'  he  say,  in  thee  mos'  awful,  thee  ver' 
mos'  awful,  speak,  'it  is  all  spoil'!  It  is  all 
spoil'!     I  am  ruin'!* 

"Then  I  am  pray  mos'  fearful  hard  to  be  ver' 
good  business  man  for  thee  one  hour.  Ver' 
well.  I  look  at  thee  gold.  Do  I  know  what  he 
have  mean .?  God  is  good !  I  do.  Ver'  well. 
Thee  gold  is  come  out  of  the  fire.  What  happen  .? 
Oh,  ver'  well!  It  have  be  melt.  What  ver' 
beeg  fool  is  he!  It  have  be  melt.  All.?  No! 
Thee  gold  steek  together;  thee  gold  melt  in  two; 
thee  gold  be  in  thee  beeg  lump;  thee  gold  be 
damage'.  What  this  fool  theenk  ?  Ah!  Pooh! 
This  fool  theenk  thee  gold  have  be  all  spoil'. 
Good    gold  ?    No,    spoil'    gold !     No    good    no 

141 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

more.  Ruin*  ?  I  am  ver'  good  business  man. 
I  see  what  he  have  mean.  Ah,  my  heart!  It 
jump,  it  swell,  it  choke  me,  it  tumble  into 
the  belly,  it  stop;  it  hurt  me  mos'  awful.  I 
am  theenk  I  die.  Thee  good  God  have  answer 
thee  prayer.  'O  my  God,'  I  pray  once  more, 
*this  man  is  ver*  beeg  fool.  Make  Tanous  Shiva 
good  business  man.  It  have  be  ver',  ver'  easy 
t'ingtodo,  OGod!* 

"* Spoil',  Skip*  Jim.?'  I  say. 

"*A11  spoil*,  Tom  Shiva,'  he  say.  *Thee  gold 
no  good.' 

"*Ver'  sad  to  be  ruin',*  I  say.  *Oh,  Skip'  Jim, 
ver*  sad  to  be  ruin'.  I  am  ver*,  ver'  sad  to  see 
you  ruin'.' 

"'Tom  Shiva,*  he  say,  *you  ver'  good  man.' 

"*Skip*  Jim,'  I  say,  'I  have  love  you  ver* 
much.' 

"*Oh,  Tom  Shiva,'  thee  beeg  fool  say,  *I  am 
thank  you  ver*  hard.' 

"  *  Oh  yess.  Skip*  Jim,'  I  say,  *  I  am  love  you 
ver',  ver'  much.' 

"  He  shake  my  ban*. 

"*I  am  love  you  ver'  much.  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say, 
*an'  I  am  ver'  good  man.' 

"My  ban'  it  pinch  me  ver'  sore.  Skip'  Jim 
shake  it  so  hard  with  thee  beeg,  black  han'  he 

H2 


THE   FOOL   OF   SKELETON   TICKLE 

have.  Thee  han'  of  thee  feesherman  is  ver',  ver* 
beeg,  ver*  strong.  Thee  ver'  hard  work  make  it 
ver'  beeg  an'  strong. 

"'Skip'  Jim,'  I  say,  'I  am  poor  man.  But 
not  ver  poor.  I  am  have  leet-tle  money.  I  am 
wish  thee  help  to. you.    I  am  huy  thee  spoil'  gold.' 

"*Buy  thee  gold  ?'  he  say.  *Oh,  Tom  Shiva. 
All  spoil'.  Look!  All  melt.  Thee  gold  no 
good  no  more.' 

"  *  I  am  buy  thee  gold  from  you,'  I  say,  *  Skip* 
Jim,  my  friend.' 

"'Ver'  good  friend,  you,  Tom  Shiva,'  he  say; 
*ver'  good  friend  to  me.' 

"I  am  look  at  him  ver'  close.  I  am  theenk 
what  he  will  take.  *I  am  geeve  you,'  I  say,  *I 
am  geeve  you,'  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say — 

"Then  I  stop. 

"'What  you  geeve  me  for  thee  spoil'  gold  ?'  he 
say. 

"*I  am  geeve  you,'  I  say,  'for  thee  spoil'  gold 
an*  for  thee  half-bushel  of  spoil'  silver,'  I  say,  *  I 
am  geeve  you  seventy-five  dollar.' 

"  Then  he  get  ver'  good  business  man  in  the  eye. 

"*Oh  nol'  he  say.  *I  am  want  one  hundred 
dollar.' 

"I  shake  my  head.  'Oh,  Skip'  Jim!'  I  say. 
*  Shame  to  have  treat  thee  friend  so!     I  am  great 

H3 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

friend  to  you,  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say.  *  But,'  I  say, 
'business  is  business.  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say,  'let  us 
have  pray.* 

"What  you  theenk }  What  you  theenk  this 
ver'  beeg  fool  do,?  How  I  laugh  inside!  'Let 
us  have  pray.  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say.  What  you 
theenk  he  do  ?  Eh  ?  Not  pray  .?  Ver'  religious 
man,  Skip'  Jim  —  ver',  ver'  religious.  Pray .'' 
Oh,  I  know^  him.  Pray.''  You  bet  he  pray! 
You  ask  Skip'  Jim  to  pray,  an'  he  pray — oh, 
he  pray,  you  bet!  *0  God,'  he  pray,  'I  am  ver* 
much  'blige'  for  Tom  Shiva,  I  am  ver'  much 
*blige'  he  come  to  Skeleton  Teekle.  I  am  ver' 
much  'blige'  he  have  thee  soft  heart.  I  am  ver' 
much  'blige'  you  fix  thee  heart  to  help  poor  ol' 
Skip' Jim.  He  good  Jew,  O  God.'  (Pooh!  I  am 
Syrian  man — not  Jew.  But  I  am  not  tell,  for 
I  am  ver'  good  business  man.)  'Forgive  this 
poor  Tom  Shiva,  O  my  dear  God!' 

"I  get  ver'  tired  with  thee  prayin'.  I  am  ver' 
good  business  man.     I  am  want  thee  gold. 

"'Skip'  Jim!'  I  whis-pair.  'Oh,  Skip*  Jim!' 
I  say.  'Thee  bargain!  Fix  thee  bargain  with 
thee  dear  God.*  My  heart  is  ver'  mad  with  thee 
fear.  'Fix  thee  bargain  with  thee  good  God,'  I 
say.  *Oh,  Skip'  Jim!'  I  whis-pair.  'Queek!  I 
am  offer  seventy-five  dollar.' 

Iff 


THE    FOOL   OF   SKELETON    TICKLE 

"Then  he  get  up  from  thee  knee.  Ver'  ob- 
stinate man — ver',  ver'  obstinate  man,  this  ol' 
Skip'  Jim.  He  get  up  from  thee  knee.  What  he 
theenk  .?  Eh  ?  He  theenk  he  ver'  good  business 
man.  He  theenk  he  beat  Tom  Shiva  by  thee  sin. 
Want  God .''  Oh  no!  Not  want  God  to  know, 
you  bet! 

"'I  am  want  one  hundred  dollar,'  he  say,  ver' 
cross,  'for  thee  heap  of  spoil'  gold  an'  silver. 
Thee  God  is  bus-ee.  I  am  do  this  business  by 
thee  'lone.  Thee  dear  God  is  ver',  ver'  bus-ee 
jus'  now.     I  am  not  bother  him  no  more.' 

"*Ver'  well,'  I  say.     *I  am  geeve  you  eighty.' 

"*Come,'  he  say;  'ninety  will  have  do.' 

"'Ver'  well,'  I  say.  'You  are  my  friend.  I 
geeve  you  eighty-five.' 

"'Ver'  well,'  he  say.  'I  am  love  you  ver' 
much,  Tom  Shiva.  I  take  it.  Ver'  kind  of 
you,  Tom  Shiva,  to  buy  all  thee  spoil'  gold 
an'  silver.  I  am  hope  you  have  not  lose  thee 
money.' 

"  I  am  ver'  hones'  business  man.  Eh  ?  What 
I  say .?  I  say  I  lose  thee  money  ?  No,  no !  I 
am  thee  ver'  mos'  hones'  business  man  in  New- 
f'un'lan'.     I  am  too  hones*  to  say  thee  lie. 

"'I  am  take  thee  risk,'  I  say.  'You  are  my 
friend,  Skip'  Jim,'  I  say.     'I  am  take  thee  risk. 

H5 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

I  am  geeve  you  eighty-five  dollar  for  all  the 
spoil'  gold  an*  silver — half  cash,  half  trade.  .  .  . 
I  am  have  mos*  wonderful  suit  clothes  for  ver' 
cheap *" 

And  the  fool  of  Skeleton  Tickle  was  left  with 
a  suit  of  shoddy  tweed  and  fifty-seven  dollars  in 
unspoiled  gold  and  silver  coin,  believing  that  he 
had  overreached  the  peddler  from  Damascus 
and  New  York,  piously  thanking  God  for  the  op- 
portunity, ascribing  glory  to  him  for  the  success, 
content  that  it  should  be  so.  .  .  .  And  Tanous 
Shiva  departed  by  the  mail-boat,  as  he  had  come, 
with  the  seven  lobster-tins  of  gold  and  the  half- 
bushel  of  silver  which  three  generations  had 
labored  to  accumulate;  and  he  went  south  to 
St.  John's,  where  he  converted  the  spoiled  coin 
into  a  bank  credit  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  con- 
tent that  it  should  be  so.  And  thereupon  he  set 
out  again  to  trade.  .  .  . 

The  mail-boat  was  now  riding  at  anchor  within 
the  harbor  of  Skeleton  Tickle.  Rain  was  falling 
— ^thin,  penetrating,  cold,  driven  by  the  wind. 
On  the  bleak,  wet  hills,  the  cottages,  vague  in  the 
mist,  cowered  in  dumb  wretchedness,  like  men 
of  sodden  patience  who  wait  without  hope.     A 

146 


THE    FOOL   OF   SKELETON   TICKLE 

punt  put  out  from  shore — came  listlessly  toward 
the  steamer  for  the  mail. 

"Ho!  Tom  Timms!"  the  Syrian  shouted. 
"That  you,  Tom  Timms  ?  How  Skip'  Jim  All  ? 
How  my  ol',  good  friend  Skip*  Jim  All  ?" 

The  boat  was  under  the  quarter.  Tom 
Timms  shipped  his  oars,  wiped  the  rain  from 
his  whiskers,  then  looked  up  —  without  feel- 
ing. 

"Dead,"  he  said. 

"Dead!"  The  man  turned  to  me.  "I  am 
thank  thee  good  God,"  he  whispered,  reverently, 
"that  I  am  get  thee  gold  in  time."  He  shud- 
dered. "O,  my  God!"  he  muttered.  "What  if 
I  have  come  thee  too  late!" 

"  Ay,  dead,"  Tom  Timms  repeated.  "  He  sort 
o'  went  an*  jus*  died.'* 

"Oh,  dear!  How  have  he  come  to  die  ?  Oh, 
my  poor  friend,  ol'  Skip*  Jim!  How  have  he 
come  by  thee  death  ?" 

"Hanged  hisself.** 

"Hanged  hisself!  Oh,  dear!  Why  have  thee 
ol'  Skip'  Jim  be  so  fearful  wicked  ?" 

It  was  an  unhappy  question. 

"Well,"  Tom  Timms  answered,  in  a  colorless 
drawl,  "he  got  a  trap-leader  when  he  found  out 
what  you  done.     He  just  sort  o*  went  an*  got  a 

H7 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

trap-leader  an'  hanged  hisself  in  the  fish-stage— 
when  he  found  out  what  you  done." 

The  Syrian  glanced  at  me.  I  glanced  at  him. 
Our  eyes  met;  his  were  steady,  innocent,  pitiful; 
my  own  shifted  to  the  closing  bank  of  gray  fog. 
"Business,"  he  sighed,  "is  business." 
The  words  repeated  themselves  interminably 
— a  monotonous  dirge.  Business  is  business. 
.  .  .  Business  is  business.  .  .  .  Business  is  busi- 
ness. .  .  . 


VI 

A  COMEDY  OF   CANDLESTICK  COVE 

IT  was  windy  weather:  and  had  been — for  an 
exasperating  tale  of  dusks  and  dawns.  It 
was  not  the  weather  of  variable  gales,  which 
blow  here  and  there,  forever  to  the  advantage  of 
some  Newfoundland  folk;  it  was  the  weather  of 
ill  easterly  winds,  in  gloomy  conjunction  bring- 
ing fog,  rain,  breaking  seas,  drift-ice,  dispiriting 
cold.  From  Nanny's  Old  Head  the  outlook  was 
perturbing:  the  sky  was  hid,  with  its  familiar 
warnings  and  promises;  gigantic  breakers  fell 
with  swish  and  thud  upon  the  black  rocks  below, 
flinging  lustreless  white  froth  into  the  gray  mist; 
and  the  grounds,  where  the  men  of  Candlestick 
Cove  must  cast  lines  and  haul  traps,  were  in  an 
ill-tempered,  white-capped  tumble — black  waves 
rolling  out  of  a  melancholy  fog,  hanging  low, 
which  curtained  the  sea  beyond. 

The  hands  of  the  men  of  Candlestick  Cove 
149 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

were  raw  with  salt-water  sores;  all  charms  against 
the  affliction  of  toil  in  easterly  gales  had  failed 
— brass  bracelets  and  incantations  alike.  And 
the  eyes  of  the  men  of  Candlestick  Cove  were 
alert  with  apprehensive  caution:  tense,  quick  to 
move,  clear  and  hard  under  drawn  brows.  With 
a  high  sea  perversely  continuing  beyond  the 
harbor  tickle,  there  was  no  place  in  the  eyes  of 
men  for  the  light  of  humor  or  love,  which  thrive 
in  security.  Windy  weather,  indeed!  'Twas  a 
time  for  men  to  be  men! 

"I  'low  I  never  seed  nothin'  like  it,"  Jonathan 
Stock  complained. 

The  sea,  breaking  upon  the  Rock  o'  Wishes, 
and  the  wind,  roaring  past,  confused  old  Tom  Lull. 

"What  say  ?"  he  shouted. 

"Nothin*  like  it,'*  said  Jonathan  Stock. 

They  had  come  in  from  the  sea  with  empty 
punts,  and  they  were  now  pulling  up  the  harbor,, 
side  by  side,  toward  the  stage-heads,  which  were 
lost  in  the  misty  dusk.  Old  Tom  had  hung  in 
the  lee  of  the  Rock  o'  Wishes  until  Jonathan 
Stock  came  flying  over  the  tickle  breaker  in  a 
cloud  of  spray.  The  wind  had  been  in  the  east 
beyond  the  experience  of  eighty  years;  it  was  in 
his  aged  mind  to  exchange  opinions  upon  the 
marvel. 

150 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

"Me  neither,"  said  he. 

They  were  drawing  near  Herring  Point,  within 
the  harbor,  where  the  noise  of  wind  and  sea,  in 
an  easterly  gale,  diminisiies. 

"I  'low  I  never  seed  nothin'  like  it,"  said 
Jonathan  Stock. 

"Me  neither.  Skipper  Jonathan." 

"Never  seed  nothin'  like  it." 

They  pulled  on  in  silence — until  the  froth  of 
Puppy  Rock  was  well  astern. 

"Me  neither,"  said  Tom. 

"/  never  seed  nothin'  like  it,"  Jonathan 
grumbled. 

Old  Tom  wagged  his  head. 

"No,  sir!"  Jonathan  declared.  "Never  seed 
nothin   like  it." 

"Me  neither." 

"Not  like  thisy'  said  Jonathan,  testily. 

"Me  neither,"  old  Tom  agreed.  "Not  like 
this.     No,  sir;  me  neither,  b'y!" 

'Twas  a  grand,  companionable  exchange  of 
ideas !  A  gush  of  talk !  A  whirlwind  of  opinion ! 
Both  enjoyed  it — ^were  relieved  by  it:  rid  of  the 
gathered  thought  of  long  hours  alone  on  the 
grounds.  Jonathan  Stock  had  expressed  him- 
self freely  and  at  length;  so,  too,  old  Tom  Lull. 
'Twas  heartening  —  this  easy  sociability.  Tom 
II  151 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Lull  was  glad  that  he  had  waited  in  the  lee  of 
the  Rock  o'  Wishes;  he  had  felt  the  need  of  con- 
versation, and  was  now  gratified;  so,  too,  Jona- 
than Stock.  But  now,  quite  exhausted  of  ideas, 
they  proceeded  in  silence,  pulling  mechanically 
through  the  dripping  mist.  From  time  to  time 
old  Tom  Lull  wagged  his  head  and  darkly  mut- 
tered; but  the  words  invariably  got  lost  in  his 
mouth. 

Presently  both  punts  came  to  Jonathan  Stock's 
stage. 

"I  *lowy'  Jonathan  exclaimed,  in  parting,  "I 
never  seed  nothin'  like  it!" 

Old  Tom  lifted  his  oars.  He  drew  his  hand 
over  his  wet  beard.  A  moment  he  reflected — 
frowning  at  the  mist:  deep  in  philosophical  labor. 
Then  he  turned  quickly  to  Jonathan  Stock: 
turned  in  delight,  his  gray  old  face  clear  of  be- 
wilderment— ^turned  as  if  about  to  deliver  him- 
self of  some  vast  original  conception,  which  might 
leave  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

"Me  neither!"  he  chuckled,  as  his  oars  struck 
the  water  and  his  punt  moved  off  into  the  mist. 

Windy  weather!  Moreover,  it  was  a  lean  year 
— the  leanest  of  three  lean  years.  The  flakes 
were  idle,  unkempt,  dripping  the  fog;  the  stages 

152 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

were  empty,  the  bins  full  of  salt;  the  splitting- 
knives  were  rusted:  this  though  men  and  punts 
and  nets  were  worn  out  with  toil.  There  was 
no  fish :  wherefore,  the  feeling  men  of  Candlestick 
Cove  kept  clear  of  the  merchant  of  the  place, 
who  had  outfitted  them  all  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  and  was  now  contemplating  the  reckon- 
ing at  St.  John's  with  much  terror  and  some  ill- 
humor. 

It  was  a  lean  year — a  time  of  uneasy  dread. 
From  Cape  Norman  to  the  Funks  and  beyond, 
the  clergy,  acutely  aware  of  the  prospect,  and 
perceivmg  the  opportunity  to  be  even  more  use- 
ful, preached  from  comforting  texts.  "The  Lord 
will  provide"  was  the  theme  of  gentle  Parson 
Grey  of  Doubled  Arm;  and  the  discourse  culmi- 
nated in  a  passionate  allusion  to  "Yet  have  I 
never  seen  the  seed  of  the  righteous  begging 
bread."  Parson  Stump  of  Burnt  Harbor  —  a 
timid  little  man  with  tender  gray  eyes — treated 
"Your  Heavenly  Father  feedeth  them"  with  in- 
spiring faith. 

By  all  this  the  apprehension  of  the  folk  was 
lulled;  it  was  admitted  even  by  the  unrighteous 
that  there  were  times  when  'twas  better  to  be 
with  than  without  the  clergy.  At  Little  Harbor 
Shallow,  old  Skipper  Job  Sutler,  a  man  lacking  in 

153 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

understanding,  put  out  no  more  to  the  grounds 
off  Devil-may-Care. 

"Skipper  Job,"  the  mail-boat  captain  warned, 
"you  better  get  out  t' the  grounds  in  civil  weather." 

"  Oh,"  quoth  Job,"  the  Lard  '11  take  care  o'  weT 

The  captain  was  doubtful. 

"An*,  anyhow,"  says  Job,  "if  the  Lard  don't, 
the  gov'ment's  got  to!" 

His  youngest  child  died  in  the  famine  months 
of  the  winter.     But  that  was  his  fault.  .  .  . 

Skipper  Jonathan  Stock  was  alone  with  the 
trader  in  the  shop  of  Candlestick  Cove.  The 
squat,  whitewashed  building  gripped  a  weather- 
beaten  point  of  harbor  shore.  It  was  night — a 
black  night,  the  wind  blowing  high,  rain  patter- 
ing fretfully  upon  the  roof.  The  worried  little 
trader — spare,  gimlet-eyed,  thin-whiskered,  now 
perched  on  the  counter — slapped  his  calf  with  a 
yardstick;  the  easterly  gale  was  fast  aggravating 
his  temper  beyond  control.  It  was  bright  and 
warm  in  the  shop;  the  birch  billets  spluttered 
and  snored  in  the  stove,  and  a  great  lamp  sus- 
pended from  the  main  rafter  showered  the  shelves 
and  counter  and  greasy  floor  with  light.  Skipper 
Jonathan's  clothes  of  moleskin  steamed  with  the 
rain  and  spray  of  the  day's  toil. 

154 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

"No,  John,"  said  the  trader,  sharply;  "she 
can't  have  un — it  can't  be  done." 

Jonathan  slowly  examined  his  wrist;  the  band- 
age had  got  loose.  "No?"  he  asked,  gently,  his 
eyes  still  fixed  on  the  salt-water  sore. 

"No,  sir." 

Jonathan  drew  a  great  hand  over  his  narrow 
brow,  where  the  rain  still  lay  in  the  furrows. 
It  passed  over  his  beard — a  gigantic  beard,  bushy 
and  flaming  red.  He  shook  the  rain-drops  from 
his  hand. 

"No,  Mister  Totley,"  he  repeated,  in  a  patient 
drawl.     "No— oh  no." 

Totley  hummed  the  opening  bars  of  "Wrecked 
on  the  Devil's  Finger."  He  broke  oflF  impatient- 
ly— and  sighed. 

"She  canty'  Jonathan  mused.  "No  —  she 
can't." 

The  trader  began  to  whistle,  but  there  was  no 
heart  in  the  diversion;  and  there  was  much 
poignant  distress  in  the  way  he  drummed  on 
the  counter. 

"I  wouldn't  be  carin*  so  much,"  Jonathan 
softly  persisted — "no,  not  so  much,  if  'twasn't 
their  birthday.  She  told  un  three  year  ago  they 
could  have  un  —  when  they  was  twelve.  An', 
dear  man!  they'll  be  twelve  two  weeks  come 

155 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Toosday.  Dear  man!"  he  exclaimed  again,  with 
a  fleeting  Httle  smile,  "Aow  the  young  ones 
grows!" 

The  trader  slapped  his  lean  thigh  and  turned 
his  eyes  from  Jonathan's  simple  face  to  the 
rafters.  Jonathan  bungled  with  the  bandage  on 
his  wrist;  but  his  fingers  were  stiff  and  large, 
and  he  could  not  manage  the  thread.  A  gust  of 
wind  made  the  roof  ring  with  the  rain. 

"An'  the  other  little  thing  .?"  Jonathan  inquired. 
"Was  you  'lowin'  my  woman  could  have — the 
other  little  thing  ?  She've  her  heart  sort  o'  sot 
on  that.  Sort  o*  sot  on  havin' — that  there  little 
thing." 

"Can't  do  it,  Jonathan." 

"Ay,"  Jonathan  repeated,  blankly.  "She  was 
sayin'  the  day  'twas  sort  o'  giddy  of  her;  but  she 
was  'lowin'  her  heart  was  sort  o'  sot  on  havin' — 
that  little  thing." 

Totley  shook  his  head. 

"Her  heart,"  Jonathan  sighed. 

"Can't  do  it,  John." 

"  Mm-m-m!  No,"  Jonathan  muttered,  scratch- 
ing his  head  in  helplessness  and  bewilderment; 
"he  can't  give  that  little  thing  t'  the  woman, 
neither.     Can't  give  she  that.^^ 

Totley  shook  his  head.  It  was  not  an  agree- 
156 


A  COMEDY    OF  CANDLESTICK   COVE 

able  duty  thus  to  deny  Jonathan  Stock  of  Can- 
dlestick Cove.  It  pinched  the  trader's  heart. 
"But  a  must  is  a  must!"  thought  he.  The  wind 
was  in  the  east,  with  no  sign  of  change,  and  'twas 
late  in  the  season;  and  there  was  no  fish — no 
fishy  God  help  us  all!  There  would  be  famine 
at  Candlestick  Cove — f amines  God  help  us  all! 
The  folk  of  Candlestick  Cove — Totley's  folk — 
must  be  fed;  there  must  be  no  starvation.  And 
the  creditors  at  St.  John's — Totley's  creditors — 
were  wanting  fish  insistently.  Wanting  fishy  God 
help  us!  when  there  was  no  fish.  There  was 
a  great  gale  of  ruin  blowing  up;  there  would 
be  an  accounting  to  his  creditors  for  the  goods 
they  had  given  him  in  faith — there  must  be  no 
waste  of  stock,  no  indulgence  of  whims.  He 
must  stand  well.  The  creditors  at  St.  John's 
must  be  so  dealt  with  that  the  folk  of  Candlestick 
Cove — ^Totley's  folk — could  be  fed  through  the 
winter.  'Twas  all-important  that  the  folk  should 
be  fed — -just  fed  with  bread  and  molasses  and  tea: 
nothing  more  than  that.  Nothing  more  than 
that,  by  the  Lord !  would  go  out  of  the  store. 

Jonathan  pushed  back  his  dripping  cloth  cap 
and  sighed.  "'Tis  fallin'  out  wonderful,"  he 
ventured. 

Totley  whistled  to  keep  his  spirits  up. 

^$1 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"Awful!"  said  Jonathan. 

The  tune  continued. 

"She  *lows,"  Jonathan  went  on,  "that  if  it 
keeps  on  at  this  rate  she  won't  have  none  left  by 
spring.     That's  what  she  'lows  will  happen." 

Totley  proceeded  to  the  chorus. 

"No,  sir,"  Jonathan  pleaded;  "she'll  have  nar 
a  one!" 

The  trader  avoided  his  eye. 

"An*  it  makes  her  feel  sort  o'  bad,"  Jonathan 
protested.  "I  tells  her  that  with  or  without  she 
won't  be  no  different  t'  me.  Not  t'  me.  But 
she  sort  o'  feels  bad  just  the  same.  You  sees, 
sir,"  he  stammered,  abashed,  "she — she — she's 
only  a  woman!" 

Totley  jumped  from  the  counter.  "Look  you 
Jonathan!"  said  he,  decisively,  "she  can  have 
it." 

Jonathan  beamed. 

"She  can  have  what  she  wants  for  herself, 
look  you!  but  she  can't  have  no  oil-skins  for  the 
twins,  though  'tis  their  birthday.  'Tis  hard  times, 
Jonathan,  with  the  wind  glued  t*  the  east;  an' 
the  twins  is  got  t'  go  wet.  What  kind  she  want  ? 
Eh  ?  I  got  two  kinds  in  the  case.  I  don't  rec- 
ommend neither  o'  them." 

Jonathan  scratched  his  head. 
158 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK   COVE 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  trader,  "you  better 
find  out.  If  she's  goin*  t'  have  it  at  all,  she  better 
have  the  kind  she  hankers  for." 

Jonathan  agreed. 

"Skipper  Jonathan,"  said  the  trader,  much 
distressed,  "we're  so  poor  at  Candlestick  Cove 
that  v^re  ought  t'  be  eatin'  moss.  I'll  have  trouble 
enough,  this  fall,  gettin'  flour  from  St.  John's  t' 
go  'round.  Skipper  Jonathan,  if  you  could  get 
your  allowance  o'  flour  down  t'  five  barrels  in- 
stead o'  six,  I'd  thank  you.  The  young  ones  is 
growin',  I  knows;  but — ^well,  I'd  thank  you, 
Jonathan,  I'd  thank  you!" 

"Mister  Totley,  sir,"  Jonathan  Stock  replied, 
solemnly,  "I  will  get  that  flour  down  t'  five. 
Don't  you  fret  no  more  about  feedin'  my  little 
crew,"  he  pleaded.  "'Tis  kind  o'  you;  an'  I'm 
sorry  you've  t*  fret." 

"Thank  you,  Jonathan." 

"An'  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  mind  lashin'  this  bit 
o'  cotton  on  my  wrist,  would  you,  sir?  The 
sleeve  o'  my  jacket  sort  o'  chafes  the  sore.". 

"A  bad  hand,  Jonathan!" 

"No — oh  no;  it  ain't  bad.  I've  had  scores  of 
un  in  my  time.  It  don't  amount  t*  nothin'.  Oh 
no — it  ain't  what  you  might  call  badT' 

The  wrist  was  bound  anew.  Jonathan  stum- 
159 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

bled  down  the  dark  steps  to  the  water-side,  glad 
that  his  wife  was  to  have  that  which  she  so 
much  desired.  He  pushed  out  in  the  punt.  She 
was  only  a  woman,  he  thought,  with  an  indulgent 
smile,  but  she  did  want — that  little  thing.  The 
wind  was  high — the  rain  sweeping  out  of  the 
east.  He  turned  the  bow  of  the  punt  toward  a 
point  of  light  shining  cheerily  far  off  in  the  dark, 
tumultuous  night. 

Jonathan  Stock  had  no  more  than  got  off  his 
soggy  boots,  and  washed  his  hands,  and  combed 
his  hair,  and  drawn  close  to  the  kitchen  fire — 
while  his  wife  clattered  over  the  bare  floor  about 
the  business  of  his  comfort — when  Parson  Jaunt 
tapped  and  entered:  and  folded  his  umbrella, 
and  wiped  his  face  with  a  white  handkerchief, 
and  jovially  rubbed  his  hands  together.  This 
was  a  hearty,  stout  little  man,  with  a  double  chin 
and  a  round,  rosy  face;  with  twinkling  eyes;  with 
the  jolliest  little  paunch  in  the  world;  dressed  all 
in  black  cloth,  threadbare  and  shiny,  powdered 
with  dandruff  upon  the  shoulders;  and  wear- 
ing a  gigantic  yellow  chain  hanging  from  pocket 
to  pocket  of  the  waistcoat,  and  wilted  collar 
and  cuffs,  and  patent-leather  shoes,  which  were 
muddy  and  cracked  and  turned  up  at  the  toes. 

J  60 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

A  hearty  welcome  he  got;  and  he  had  them  all 
laughing  at  once  —  twins  and  all.  Even  the 
chickens  in  the  coop  under  the  settee  clucked,  and 
the  kid  behind  the  stove  rapturously  bleated,  and 
the  last  baby  chuckled,  and  the  dog  yawned  and 
shook  his  hind  quarters,  joyfully  awake. 

'Twas  always  comforting  to  have  Parson  Jaunt 
drop  in.  Wherever  he  went  among  the  folk  of 
Candlestick  Cove,  in  wet  weather  or  dry,  poor 
times  or  bad,  there  was  a  revival  of  jollity.  His 
rippling  person,  smiling  face,  quick  laugh,  ami- 
able intimacy,  his  quips  and  questions,  his  way 
with  children — these  made  him  beloved.  Ay, 
there  was  always  a  welcome  for  Parson  Jaunt! 

"Ha,  ha!  Yes,"  the  parson  proceeded,  "the 
brethren  will  be  here  on  the  next  mail-boat  for 
the  district  meeting.  Ha,  ha!  Well,  well,  now! 
And  how's  the  baby  getting  along.  Aunt  Tibbie  ? 
Hut!  you  little  toad;  don't  you  laugh  at  meP^ 

But  the  baby  would. 

"  Ha-a-a,  you  rat !  You  will  laugh,  will  you  ? 
He's  a  fine  child,  that.  .  .  .  And  I  was  thinking. 
Skipper  Jonathan,  that  you  and  Aunt  Tibbie 
might  manage  Parson  All  of  Satan's  Trap. 
Times  are  hard,  of  course;  but  it's  the  Lord's 
work,  you  know.  ...  Eh  ?  Get  out,  you  squid ! 
Stop  that  laughing!" 

i6i 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

The  baby  could  not. 

"Stop  it,  I  say!" 

The  baby  doubled  up,  and  squirmed,  and 
wiggled  his  toes,  and  gasped  with  glee. 

"Yes,"  the  parson  continued,  "that  you  might 
manage  Parson  All  of  Satan's  Trap." 

"T*  be  sure!"  cried  Skipper  Jonathan.  "We'll 
manage  un,  an'  be  glad!" 

Aunt  Tibbie's  face  fell. 

"That's  good,"  said  the  parson.  "Now,  that 
is  good  news.  *Tis  most  kind  of  you,  too,"  he 
added,  earnestly,  "in  these  hard  times.  And 
it  ends  my  anxiety.  The  brethren  are  now  all 
provided  for.  .  .  .  Hey,  you  wriggler!  Come  out 
of  that!  Ha,  ha!  Well,  well!"  He  took  the 
baby  from  the  cradle.  "Gi'  me  a  kiss,  now. 
Hut!  You  won't?  Oh,  you  willy  will  you?" 
He  kissed  the  baby  with  real  delight.  "  I  thought 
so.  Ha!  I  thought  so."  He  put  the  baby 
back.  "You  little  slobbery  squid!"  said  he, 
with  a  last  poke.     "Ha!  you  little  squid!" 

Aunt  Tibbie's  face  was  beaming.  Anxiety 
and  weariness  were  for  the  moment  both  forgot. 
'Twas  good,  indeed,  to  have  Parson  Jaunt  drop  in! 

"  Eh,  woman  ?"  Jonathan  inquired. 

"Oh,  ay!"  she  answered.  "We've  always  a 
pillow  an'  a  bite  t'  eat  for  the  Lard's  anointed." 

162 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

"The  Lord's  anointed!"  the  parson  repeated, 
quickly.  "Ah,  that's  it,  sister,"  said  he,  the 
twinkle  gone  from  his  upturned  eyes.  "I've 
a  notion  to  take  that  up  next  Sunday.  And 
Parson  All,"  he  continued,  "is  a  saintly  fellow. 
Yes,  indeed!  Converted  at  the  age  of  seven. 
He's  served  the  Lord  these  forty  years.  Ah,  dear 
me!  what  a  profitable  season  you'll  be  having 
with  him!  A  time  of  uplifting,  a  time  of — of — • 
yes,  indeed! — uplifting."  The  parson  was  not 
clever;  he  was  somewhat  limited  as  to  ideas,  as 
to  words;  indeed,  'twas  said  he  stuttered  over- 
much in  preaching  and  was  given  to  repetition. 
But  he  was  sincere  in  the  practise  of  his  profession, 
conceiving  it  a  holy  calling;  and  he  did  the  best 
he  could,  than  which  no  man  can  do  more.  "A 
time,"  he  repeated,  "of — of — ^yes — of  uplifting.'* 

Aunt  Tibbie  was  taken  by  an  anxious  thought. 
"What  do  he  fancy,"  she  asked,  "for  feedin' ?" 

"Ha,  ha!"  the  parson  exploded,  in  his  delight- 
fully jocular  way.  "That's  the  woman  of  it. 
Well,  well,  now!  Yes,  indeed!  There  speaks 
the  good  housewife.  Eh,  Skipper  Jonathan  ? 
You  re  well  looked  after,  I'll  warrant.  That's 
rather  good,  you  know,  coming  from  you^  Aunt 
Tibbie.  Ha,  ha!  Why,  Aunt  Tibbie,  he  eats 
anything.     Anything  at  all!    You'll  want  very 

163 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

little  extra  —  very,  very  little  extra.  But  he'll 
tell  you  when  he  comes.  Don't  worry  about 
that.  Just  what  you  have  for  yourselves,  you 
know.  If  it  doesn't  agree  with  him,  he'll  ask 
for  what  he  desires." 

"Sure,  sir!"  said  Skipper  Jonathan,  heartily. 
"Just  let  un  ask  for  it." 

"Ay,"  Aunt  Tibbie  echoed,  blankly;  "just  let 
un  ask  for  it.     Sure,  he  can  speak  for  hisself." 

"C^ course!"  cried  the  parson,  jovially.  "Why, 
to  be  sure!  That's  the  hospitality  for  me!  Noth- 
ing formal  about  that.  That's  just  what  makes 
us  Newfoundlanders  famous  for  hospitality. 
That's  what  I  like.     'Just  let  un  ask.*" 

The  clock  struck.  Skipper  Jonathan  turned 
patiently  to  the  dial.  He  must  be  at  sea  by 
dawn.  The  gale,  still  blowing  high,  promised 
heavy  labor  at  the  oars.  He  was  depressed  by 
the  roar  and  patter  of  the  night.  There  came, 
then,  an  angry  gust  of  rain — out  of  harmony  with 
the  parson's  jovial  spirit:  sweeping  in  from  the 
black  sea  where  Jonathan  must  toil  at  dawn. 

"Ay,"  he  sighed,  indifferently. 

Aunt  Tibbie  gave  him  an  anxious  glance. 

"Yes,  indeed!  Ha,  ha!"  the  parson  laughed. 
"Let  me  see,  now,"  he  rattled.  "To-morrow. 
Yes,  yes;  to-morrow  is  Tuesday.     Well,  now,  let 

164 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

me  see;  yes — mm-m-m,  of  course,  that's  right — 
you  will  have  the  privilege  of  entertaining  Brother 
All  for  four  days.  I  wish  it  was  more.  I  wish 
for  your  sake,'*  he  repeated,  honestly,  being  un- 
aware of  the  true  situation  in  this  case,  "that  it 
could  be  more.  But  it  can't.  I  assure  you,  it 
can't.  He  must  get  the  mail-boat  north.  Pity,** 
he  continued,  "the  brethren  can*t  linger.  These 
district  meetings  are  so  helpful,  so  inspiring,  so 
refreshing.  Yes,  indeed!  And  then  the  social 
aspect — the  relaxation,  the  flow  of  soul!  We 
parsons  are  busy  men — cooped  up  in  a  study, 
you  know;  delving  in  books.  Our  brains  get 
tired.  Yes,  indeed!  They  need  rest."  Parson 
Jaunt  was  quite  sincere.  Do  not  misunderstand 
him.  'Twould  be  unkind,  even,  to  laugh  at  him. 
He  was  not  clever;  that  is  all.  "Brain  labor. 
Skipper  Jonathan,"  he  concluded,  with  an  odd 
touch  of  pomposity,  "is  hard  labor.** 

"Ay,"  said  Skipper  Jonathan,  sympathetically; 
"you  parsons  haves  wonderful  hard  lines.  I 
wouldn't  like  t'  he  one.     No,  sir;  not  me!'* 

In  this — in  the  opinion  and  feeling — Skipper 
Jonathan  was  sincere.  He  most  properly  loved 
Parson  Jaunt,  and  was  sofry  for  him,  and  he 
must  not  be  laughed  at. 

"But,**  the  parson  argued,  "we  have  the 
165 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

district  meetings — times  of  refreshing:  when  brain 
meets  brain,  you  know,  and  wit  meets  wit,  and 
the  sparks  fly.  Ha,  ha!  Yes,  indeed!  The 
social  aspect  is  not  to  be  neglected.  Dear  me, 
no!  Now,  for  illustration,  Mrs.  Jaunt  is  to  enter- 
tain the  clergy  at  the  parsonage  on  Thursday 
evening.  Yes,  indeed!  She's  planned  the  re- 
freshments already."  The  parson  gave  Aunt 
Tibbie  a  sly,  sly  glance,  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "Ha,  ha!'*  he  roared.  "I  know  what  you 
want.  You  want  to  know  what  she's  going  to 
have,  don't  you  ?  Woman's  curiosity,  eh  ?  Ha, 
ha!  Oh,  you  women!"  Aunt  Tibbie  smiled. 
"Well,"  said  the  parson,  importantly,  "I'll  tell 
you.  But  it's  a  secret,  mind  you!  Don't  you 
tell  Brother  All!"  Aunt  Tibbie  beamed.  "Well," 
the  parson  continued,  his  voice  falling  to  a  whis- 
per, "she's  going  to  have  a  jelly -cake,  and  an 
angel-cake,  and  a  tin  of  beef."  The  twins  sat 
up,  wide-eyed  with  attention.  "Eh?  Ha,  ha!" 
the  parson  laughed.  "You  got  that  ?  And  she's 
going  to  have  something  more."  Aunt  Tibbie 
leaned  forward — agape,  her  eyes  staring.  The 
twins  were  already  overcome.  "Yes,  indeed!" 
said  the  parson.  "She's  got  a  dozen  bananas 
from  St  Johns!  Eh  ?  Ha,  ha!  And  she's  going 
to  slice  'em  and  put  'em  in  a  custard.     Ha,  ha!" 

i66 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

The  twins  gasped. 

"Ha,  ha!"  the  parson  roared. 

They  were  all  dehghted  —  parson,  skipper, 
housewife,  and  twins.  Nor  in  providing  this 
hospitaUty  for  the  Black  Bay  clergy  was  the 
parson  in  thought  or  deed  a  selfish  shepherd.  It 
would  be  unkind — it  would  be  most  unfair — to 
think  it.  He  was  an  honest,  earnest  servant  of 
the  Master  he  acknowledged,  doing  good  at 
Candlestick  Cove,  in  fair  and  foul  weather.  He 
lived  his  life  as  best  he  could — earnestly,  diligent- 
ly, with  pure,  high  purpose.  But  he  was  not 
clever:  that  is  all.  'Twould  be  an  evil  thing  for 
more  brilliant  folk  (and  possibly  less  kindly)  to 
scorn  him. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  the  parson  laughed.  "And 
look  here,  now — ^why,  I  must  be  off!  Where's  my 
umbrella  ?  Here  it  is.  .  .  .  Will  you  look  at  that 
baby.  Aunt  Tibbie  ?  He's  staring  at  me  yet. 
Get  out,  you  squid!  Stop  that  laughing.  Got  a 
kiss  for  me  ?  Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?  Then 
give  it  to  me.  ...  A  fine  baby  that;  yes,  indeed! 
A  fine  baby.  .  .  .  Get  out,  you  wriggler!  Leave 
your  toes  be.  Ha-a-a!  I'll  catch  you — ^yes,  I 
will!...  What  a  night  it  is!  How  the  wind 
blows  and  the  rain  comes  down !  And  no 
sign  of  fish,  Skipper  Jonathan  .•*  Ah,  well,  the 
la  167 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Lord  will  provide.  Good- night.  God  bless 
you!" 

"You'll  get  wonderful  wet,  sir,"  said  Aunt 
Tibbie,  with  a  little  frown  of  anxiety. 

"  I  don't  mind  it  in  the  least/'  cried  the  parson. 
"Not  at  all.     I'm  used  to  it." 

Skipper  Jonathan  shut  the  door  against  the 
wind. 

"Will  it  never  stop  blowin'!"  Aunt  Tibbie  com* 
plained. 

Outside,  wind  and  rain  had  their  way  with  the 
world.  Aunt  Tibbie  and  Skipper  Jonathan  ex- 
changed glances.  They  were  thinking  of  the 
dawn. 

"Fm  wantin'  t'  go  t'  bed,  Tibbie,"  Jonathan 
sighed,  "for  I'm  wonderful  tired." 

"An'  I'm  tired,  too,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Tibbie, 
softly.     **  Leave  us  all  go  t'  bed." 

They  were  soon  sound  asleep.  .  .  . 

Parson  All  turned  out  to  be  a  mild  little  old 
man  with  spectacles.  His  eyes  were  blue — 
faded,  watery,  shy:  wherein  were  many  flashes 
of  humor  and  kindness.  His  face  was  smooth 
land  colorless---almost  as  white  as  his  hair,  which 
was  also  long  and  thin  and  straight.  Whfen 
Jonathan  came  in  from  the  sea  after  dark-^from 

168 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

the  night  and  wet  and  vast  confusion  of  that 
place — Parson  All  was  placidly  rocking  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  his  hands  neatly  folded,  his  trousers 
drawn  up,  so  that  his  ankles  and  calves  might 
warm;  and  the  kitchen  w^as  in  a  joyous  tumult, 
with  which  the  little  old  man  from  Satan's  Trap 
was  in  benevolent  sympathy.  Jonathan  had 
thought  to  find  the  house  solemn,  the  wife  in  a 
fluster,  the  twins  painfully  washed  and  brushed, 
the  able  seamen  of  the  little  crew  glued  to  their 
stools;  but  no!  the  baby  was  crowing  in  the 
cradle,  the  twins  tousled  and  grinning,  the  wife 
beaming,  the  little  crew  rolling  on  the  floor — the 
whole  kitchen,  indeed,  in  a  gratefully  familiar 
condition  of  chaos  and  glee. 

At  once  they  sat  down  to  supper. 

**rm  glad  t*  have  you,  parson,"  said  Jonathan, 
his  broad,  hairy  face  shining  with  soap  and  de- 
light.    "That  I  is.     Fm  glad  t'  have  you." 

The  parson's  smile  was  winning. 

"Jonathan  haves  a  wonderful  taste  for  com" 
pany,''  Aunt  Tibbie  explained. 

The  man  defended  himself.  "I  isn't  able  t* 
help  it,"  said  he.  "I  loves  t'  feed  folk.  An'  I 
isn't  able,  an'  I  never  was  able,  an'  I  never  will 
be  able  t'  help  it.  Here's  your  brewis,  sir.  Eat 
hearty  of  it.     Don't  spare  it." 

169 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"They*s  more  in  the  pot,"  Aunt  Tibbie  put  in. 

The  parson's  gentle  eye  searched  the  table — 
as  our  eyes  have  often  done.  A  bit  of  hopeful 
curiosity — nothing  more:  a  thing  common  to  us 
all,  saints  and  sinners  alike.  We  have  all  been 
hungry  and  we  have  all  hoped;  but  few  of  us,  I 
fancy,  being  faint  of  hunger — and  dyspeptic — 
have  sat  down  to  a  bowl  of  brewis.  'Tis  no  sin, 
in  parson  or  layman,  to  wish  for  more;  for  the 
Lord  endowed  them  both  with  hunger,  and  cursed 
many,  indiscriminately,  with  indigestion.  Small 
blame,  then,  to  the  parson,  who  was  desperately 
hungry;  small  blame  to  Jonathan,  who  had  no 
more  to  give.  There  is  no  fault  anywhere  to  be 
descried.  Ah,  w^ell!  the  parson's  roving  eye  was 
disappointed,  but  twinkled  just  the  same;  it  did 
not  darken — nor  show  ill-humor.  There  was  a 
great  bowl  of  brewis — a  mountain  of  it.  'Twas 
eyed  by  the  twins  with  delight.  But  there  was 
nothing  more.  The  parson's  eye — the  shy,  blue, 
twinkling  eye — slyly  sought  the  stove;  but  the 
stove  was  bare.  And  still  the  mild  eyes  con- 
tinued full  of  benevolence  and  satisfaction.  He 
was  a  man — ^that  parson! 

"Windy  weather,"  said  he,  with  an  engaging 
smile. 

"Never  seed  nothin'  like  it!"  Jonathan  declared. 
170 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

The  twins  were  by  this  time  busy  with  their 
forks,  their  eyes  darting  Httle  glances  at  the 
parson,  at  the  parson's  overloaded  plate,  at  the 
ruin  of  the  mountain. 

"Wind  in  the  east,"  the  parson  remarked. 

Jonathan  was  perturbed.  "You  isn't  very 
hearty  the  night,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  yes!"  the  parson  protested. 
"I  was  just  about  to  begin." 

The  faces  of  the  twins  were  by  this  overcast. 

"Don't  spare  it,  parson." 

The  parson  gulped  a  mouthful  with  a  wry 
face  —  an  obstinately  wry  face;  he  could  not 
manage  to  control  it.  He  smiled  at  once  —  a 
quick,  sweet  comprehensive  little  smile.  It  was 
heroic — he  was  sure  that  it  was!  And  it  was) 
He  could  do  no  more.  'Twas  impossible  to  take 
the  brewis.  A  melancholy — ay,  and  perilous — 
situation  for  a  hungry  man:  an  old  man,  and  a 
dyspeptic.     Conceive  it,  if  you  can! 

"  That  ain't  hearty,"  Aunt  Tibbie  complained. 

"To  be  frank,"  said  the  parson,  in  great  hu- 
miliation— ^*'to  be  perfectly  frank,  I  like  brewis, 
but—" 

The  happiness  faded  from  Aunt  Tibbie's  eyes. 

" — I  don't  find  it  inspiring,"  the  parson  con- 
cluded, in  shame. 

171 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

The  twins  promptly  took  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  pass  their  plates  for  more. 

"Dyspepsey?"  Aunt  Tibbie  inquired. 

"It  might  be  called  that,"  Parson  All  replied, 
sweeping  the  board  with  a  smile,  but  yet  with  a 
flush  of  guilt  and  shame,  "by  a  physician." 

"Poor  man!"  Aunt  Tibbie  sighed. 

There  was  a  brief  silence — expectant,  but  not 
selfishly  so,  on  the  part  of  the  parson;  somewhat 
despairing  on  the  part  of  the  hosts. 

"Well,  parson,"  Skipper  Jonathan  said,  dog- 
gedly, "all  you  got  t'  do  is  ask  for  what  you 
wants." 

"No,  no!" 

"That's  all  you  got  t'  do,"  Jonathan  persisted. 

"Most  kind  of  you,  sir!     But — no,  no!" 

"Please  do!"  Aunt  Tibbie  begged. 

But  the  parson  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  Not 
Parson  All  of  Satan's  Trap — a  kindly,  sensitive 
soul!  He  was  very  hungry,  to  be  sure,  and  must 
go  hungry  to  bed  (it  seemed);  but  he  would  not 
ask  for  what  he  wanted.  To-morrow .?  Well, 
something  had  to  be  done.  He  would  yield — he 
must  yield  to  the  flesh — a  little.  This  he  did 
timidly:  with  shame  for  the  weakness  of  the 
flesh.  He  resented  the  peculiarity  of  brewis  in 
his  particular  case.     Indeed,  he  came  near  to 

172 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

rebellion  against  the  Lord — no,  not  rebellion: 
merely  rebellious  questionings.  But  he  is  to  be 
forgiven,  surely;  for  he  wished  most  earnestly 
that  he  might  eat  brewis  and  live— just  as  you 
and  I  might  have  done. 

"Now,  Parson  All,"  Jonathan  demanded, 
"you  just  got  t'  tell." 

And,  well,  the  parson  admitted  that  a  little 
bread  and  a  tin  of  beef — to  be  taken  sparingly — 
would  be  a  grateful  diet. 

"But  we've  none!"  cried  Aunt  Tibbie.  "An' 
this  night  you'll  starve  1" 

"To-night,"  said  the  parson,  gently,  **my 
stomach — is  a  bit  out — anyhow." 

Presently  he  was  shown  to  his  bed.  .  ,  . 

"I  'low,"  said  Aunt  Tibbie,  when  the  parson 
was  stowed  away  and  she  had  caught  Skipper 
Jonathan's  wavering  eye,  "he'd  better  have 
more'n  that." 

"He — he — he've  just  got  t*  have  more." 

"He've  a  weak  stomach,'*  Aunt  Tibbie  apolo- 
gized.    "Poor  man!" 

"I  tells  you,  Tibbie,"  Jonathan  declared, 
"them  parsons  haves  wonderful  hard  times. 
They  isn't  able  t*  get  out  in  the  air  enough.  Too 
much  book-study.     Too  much  brain  labor.     I 

173 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

wouldn't  change  places  with  a  parson,  woman, 
for  all  the  world!" 

Aunt  Tibbie  nodded  absently. 

"  I  'low,"  said  Jonathan,  "  I'd  better  be  gettin' 
under  way  for  the  shop." 

The  man  drew  on  his  boots  and  got  into  his 
oil-skins,  and  had  his  wrists  bandaged  and  went 
out.  It  was  a  long  pull  to  the  shop;  but  his  mind 
was  too  full  of  wonder  and  sly  devising  to  per- 
ceive the  labor  of  the  way.  .  .  .  And  the  trader 
was  sitting  alone  in  the  shop,  perched  on  the 
counter,  slapping  his  lean  calf  with  a  yardstick, 
while  the  rain  pattered  on  the  roof  and  the  wind 
went  screaming  past. 

"You  got  a  parson,  Jonathan,"  said  he,  ac- 
cusingly.    "Yes,  you  is." 

"Ay,"  Jonathan  admitted,  "I  got  one." 

"An*  that's  what  brings  you  here." 

"It  be,"  Jonathan  replied,  defiantly. 

The  silence  was  disquieting. 

"I'm  'lowin',"  Jonathan  stammered,  "t* — ^t' — 
t'  sort  o'  get  four  tins  o'  beef." 

The  trader  beat  his  calf. 

"An*  six  pound  o'  butter,**  said  Jonathan, 
"an*  some  pickles.** 

"  An3^hing  else  ?'*  the  trader  snapped. 

"Ay,**  said  Jonathan,  "they  is.** 
174 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

The  trader  sniffed. 

"The  parson  haven't  said  nothin*,  but  Tibbie's 
got  a  notion  that  he's  wonderful  fond  o'  canned 
peaches,"  Jonathan  ventured,  diffidently.  "She 
'lows  they'll  keep  his  food  sweet." 

"Anything  else.?" 

"No — oh  no!"  Jonathan  sighed.  "I  'low  you 
wouldn't  give  me  three  pound  o'  cheese  ?"  he 
asked.  "Not  that  the  parson  mentioned  cheese, 
but  Tibbie  'lows  he'd  find  it  healthful."  The 
trader  nodded.  "About  four  cans  o*  peaches," 
said  Jonathan. 

"I  see,"  said  the  trader. 

Jonathan  drew  a  great  hand  over  his  narrow 
brow,  where  the  rain  still  lay  in  the  furrows. 
It  passed  over  his  red  whiskers.  He  shook  the 
rain-drops  from  his  hand. 

"Oh,  dear!"  he  sighed. 

"Jonathan,"  said  the  trader,  sharply,  "you're 
a  fool.  I've  long  knowed  it.  But  I  loves  a  fool; 
an'  you're  the  biggest  dunderhead  I  ever  knowed. 
You  can  have  the  cheese;  you  can  have  the  beef; 
you  can  have  the  peaches.  You  can  have  un  all. 
But — ^you  got  t'  pay." 

"Oh,  ay,"  said  Jonathan,  freely.     "I'll  pay!" 

"You'll  go  without  sweetness  in  your  tea,"  the 
trader  burst  out,  "all  next  winter.     Understand  ? 

175 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

No  sweetness  in  your  tea.  That's  how  you'll 
pay.  If  you  takes  these  things,  mark  you, 
Jonathan! — an'  hearken  well — if  you  takes  these 
things  for  your  parson,  there'll  be  no  molasses 
measured  out  for  you.  You'll  take  your  tea 
straight.  Do  you  understand  me,  Jonathan 
Stock  ?" 

"'Tis  well,"  said  Jonathan. 

"An'—" 

"The  other?"  Jonathan  interrupted,  anxious- 
ly. "You  wasn't  'lowin'  t'  have  the  woman  give 
up  that,  was  you .?     'Tis  such  a  little  thing." 

The  trader  was  out  of  temper. 

"Not  that!"  Jonathan  pleaded. 

"Just  that!"  Totley  exclaimed.  "I'll  not  give 
it  to  her.  If  you're  t'  have  parsons,  why,  pay 
for  un.  Don't  come  askin'  me  t'  do  it  for 
you." 

"But  she  —  she— jA/j  only  a  woman!  An' 
she  sort  o'  feels  bad.  Not  that  'twould  make  any 
diflFerence  t'  me — not  t'  me.  Oh,  I  tells  her  that. 
But  she  'lows  she  wants  it,  anyhow.  She  sort 
o*  hankers  for  it.     An'  if  you  could  manage — " 

"  Not  I !"  Totley  was  very  much  out  of  temper. 
"  Pay  for  your  own  parson,"  he  growled. 

"Ah,  well,"  Jonathan  sighed,  "she  'lowed,  if 
you  made  a  p'int  of  it,  that  she'd  take  the  grub 

176 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

an'  do  without — the  other.     Ay,  do  without — the 
other." 

So  Jonathan  went  home  with  what  the  parson 
needed  to  eat,  and  he  was  happy. 

It  was  still  windy  weather.  Dusks  and  dawns 
came  in  melancholy  procession.  The  wind  swept 
in  the  east — high,  wet,  cold.  Fog  and  rain  and 
drift-ice  were  to  be  met  on  the  grounds  of  Candle^ 
stick  Cove.  From  Nanny's  Old  Head  the  out* 
look  was  more  perturbing  than  ever:  the  sea's 
distances  were  still  hid  in  the  mist;  the  breakers 
on  the  black  rocks  below  gave  the  waste  a  voice, 
expressed  its  rage,  its  sullen  purpose;  the  grounds 
where  the  men  of  Candlestick  Cove  must  fish 
were  still  in  a  white-capped  tumble;  and  the  sores 
on  the  wrists  of  the  men  of  Candlestick  CoVe 
were  not  healed.  There  was  tio  fish;  the  coast 
hopelessly  faced  famine;  men  and  Women  and 
children  would  all  grow  lean.  The  winter,  ap- 
proaching, was  like  an  angry  cloud  rising  from 
the  rim  of  the  sea.  The  faces  of  the  men  of 
Candlesitck  Cove  were  drawn — ^with  fear  of  the 
sea  and  with  dread  of  what  might  come  to  pass. 
In  the  meetirtg-hoiisie  of  Candlestick  Gove,  in 
district  meeting  assembled,  the  Black  Bay  clergy 
engaged  in  important  discussions^  With  which  the 

177 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

sea  and  the  dripping  rocks  and  the  easterly  wind 
had  nothing  to  do.  .  .  . 

The  Black  Bay  parsons  were  exchanging  fare- 
wells at  the  landing-stage.  The  steamer  was 
waiting.  There  had  been  no  change  in  the 
weather:  the  wind  was  blowing  high  from  the 
east,  there  was  fog  abroad,  the  air  was  clammy. 
Parson  Jaunt  took  Parson  All  by  the  arm  and 
led  him  aside. 

"  How  was  you  fixed,  brother  ?"  he  whispered, 
anxiously.  "I  haven't  had  time  to  ask  you 
before." 

Parson  All's  eyebrows  were  lifted  in  mild  in- 
quiry. 

"Was  you  comfortable.''  Did  you  get  enough 
to   eat.?" 

There  was  concern  in  Parson  Jaunt's  voice — 
a  sweet,  wistful  consideration. 

"Yes,  yes!"  Parson  All  answered,  quickly. 
"They  are  very  good  people — the  Stocks." 

"They're  clean,  but — " 

"Poor." 

"Very,  very  poor!  Frankly,  Brother  All,  I  was 
troubled.  Yes,  indeed!  I  was  troubled.  I  knew 
they  were  poor,  and  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
wise  or  right  to  put  you  there.     I  feared  that  you 

178 


YOU    WAS    FIXED    ALL    RIGHT   ?"    PARSON    JAUNT    ASKED 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

might  fare  rather  badly.  But  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.     I  sincerely  hope — " 

Parson  All  raised  a  hand  in  protest. 

"  You  was  fixed  all  right  V'  Parson  Jaunt  asked. 

"Yes,  brother,"  answered  Parson  All,  in  genu- 
ine appreciation  of  the  hospitality  he  had  received. 
"It  was  touching.  Praise  the  Lord!  I'm  glad 
to  know  that  such  people  live  in  a  selfish  world 
like  this.     It  was  very,  very  touching." 

Parson  Jaunt's  face  expressed  some  surprise. 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  did  ?'*  said  Parson 
All,  taking  Parson  Jaunt  by  the  lapel  of  the 
coat  and  staring  deep  into  his  eyes.  "Do  you 
know  what  they  did  F" 

Parson  Jaunt  wagged  his  head. 

"Why,  brother,"  Parson  All  declared,  with 
genuinely  grateful  tears  in  his  eyes,  "when  I  told 
Skipper  Jonathan  that  brewis  soured  on  my 
stomach,  he  got  me  tinned  beef,  and  butter,  and 
canned  peaches,  and  cheese.  I'll  never  forget 
his  goodness.     Never!" 

Parson  Jaunt  stared.  "What  a  wonderful 
thing  Christianity  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a 
wonderful,  wonderful  thing!  By  their  fruits," 
he  quoted,  "ye  shall  know  them.'* 

The  Black  Bay  clergy  were  called  aboard. 
Parson  Jaunt  shook  oflF  the  mild  old  Parson  All 

179 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

^nd  rushed  to  the  Chairman  of  the  District,  his 
black  coat-tails  flying  in  the  easterly  wind,  and 
wrung  the  Chairman's  hand,  and  jovially  laughed 
until  his  jolly  little  paunch  shook  like  jelly.  .  .  . 

That  night,  in  the  whitewashed  cottage  upon 
which  the  angry  gale  beat.  Skipper  Jonathan  and 
Aunt  Tibbie  sat  together  by  the  kitchen  fire. 
Skipper  Jonathan  was  hopelessly  in  from  the 
sea — from  the  white  waves  thereof,  and  the  wind, 
and  the  perilous  night — and  Aunt  Tibbie  had 
dressed  the  sores  on  his  wrists.  The  twins  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  little  crew  were  tucked  away 
and  sound  asleep. 

Skipper  Jonathan  sighed. 

"What  was  you  thinkin*  about,  Jonathan?" 
Aunt  Tibbie  asked. 

"Jus'  ponderin',"  said  he. 

"Ay;  but  what  upon.?" 

"Well,  Tibbie,"  Jonathan  answered,  in  em- 
barrassment, "I  was  jus' — ^ponderin'." 

"What  is  it,  Jonathan?" 

"  I  was  'lowin',  Tibbie,"  Jonathan  admit- 
ted, "that  it  wouldn't  be  so  easy  —  no,  not 
so  easy — t'  do  without  that  sweetness  in  my 
tea." 

Aunt  Tibbie  sighed. 

1 80 


A  COMEDY  OF  CANDLESTICK  COVE 

"What  you  thinkin'  about,  dear?"  Jonathan 
asked. 

"I  got  a  sinful  hankerin',"  Aunt  Tibbie  an- 
swered, repeating  the  sigh. 

"  Is  you,  dear  .?" 

"I  got  a  sinful  hankerin',"  said  she,  "for  that 
there  bottle  o'  hair-restorer.  For  I  don't  want 
t'  go  bald!  God  forgive  me,**  she  cried,  in  an 
agony  of  humihation,  "for  this  vanity!" 

"Hush,  dear!"  Jonathan  whispered)  tenderly; 
"for  I  loves  you,  bald  or  not!" 

But  Aunt  Tibbie  burst  out  crying. 


VII 
"BY-AN'-BY"  BROWN  OF  BLUNDER  COVE 

BY-AN'-BY"  BROWN  he  was  called  at 
Blunder  Cove.  And  as  "  By-an'-by  "  Brown 
he  was  known  within  its  fishing  radius:  Grave 
Head  to  Blow-me-down  Billy,  Momentarily,  on 
the  wet  night  of  his  landing,  he  had  been  "  Mis- 
ter'* Brown;  then — ^just  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 

There  was  no  secret  about  the  baby.  Young 
Brown  was  a  bachelor  of  the  outports :  even  so, 
there  was  still  no  secret  about  the  baby.  Non- 
sense! It  was  not  "  By-an*-by's."  It  never  had 
been.  Name  ?  Tweak.  Given  name  ?  She. 
What!  Well,  then,  //.'  Age.?  Recent — some- 
wheres  'long  about  midsummer.  Blunder  Cove 
was  amazed,  but,  being  used  to  sudden  peril,  to 
misfortune,  and  strange  chances,  was  not  in- 
credulous. Blunder  Cove  was  sympathetic:  so 
sympathetic,  indeed,  so  quick  to  minister  and  to 
assist,   that   "By-an'-by"   Brown,   aged   fifteen, 

182 


BY-AN'-BY"   BROWN 


having  taken  but  transient  shelter  for  the  child, 
remained  to  rear  it,  forever  proposing,  however, 
to  proceed  —  by-and-by.  So  there  they  were, 
"By-an'-by"  Brown  and  the  baby!  And  the 
baby  was  not  "  By-an'-by's."  Everybody  knew 
it — even  the  baby:  perhaps  best  of  all. 

**By-an*-by'*  Brown  had  adopted  the  baby  at 
Back  Yard  Bight  of  the  Labrador.  There  had 
been  nothing  else  to  do.  It  was  quite  out  of  the 
question,  whatever  the  proprieties,  whatever  the 
requirements  of  babies  and  the  inadequacy  of 
bachelors — it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  for 
*'By-an'-by'*  Brown,  being  a  bachelor  offender 
years  and  perceptions,  to  abandon  even  a  baby 
at  Back  Yard  Bight  of  the  Labrador,  having  first 
assisted  at  the  interment  of  the  mother  and  then 
instantly  lost  trace  of  the  delinquent  father.  The 
monstrous  expedient  had  not  even  occurred  to 
him;  he  made  a  hasty  bundle  of  the  baby  and 
took  flight  for  more  populous  neighborhoods, 
commanding  advice,  refuge,  and  infinitely  more 
valuable  assistance  from  the  impoverished  settle- 
ments by  the  way.  And  thereafter  he  remem- 
bered the  bleak  and  lonely  reaches  of  Back  Yard 
Bight  as  a  stretch  of  coast  where  he  had  been 
considerably  alarmed. 

It  had  been  a  wet  night  when  "By-an*-by" 
''  183 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

Brown  and  the  baby  put  into  Blunder  Cove — 
wind  in  the  east,  the  sea  in  a  tumble:  a  wet  night, 
and  late  of  it.  Ail  the  windows  w^ere  black;  and 
the  paths  of  the  place — a  water-side  maze  in  the 
lee  of  great  hills — ^were  knee-deep  in  a  flood  of 
darkness.  "By-an'-by"  Brown  was  downcast: 
this  because  of  his  years.  He  was  a  lad  of 
fifteen.  Fifteen,  mark  you! — a  gigantic  fifteen:  a 
wise  and  competent  fifteen,  too,  having  for  seven 
years  fended  for  itself  in  the  turf  huts  of  the 
Labrador  and  the  forecastles  of  the  lower  coasts. 
But  still,  for  the  moment,  he  was  downcast  by 
the  burden  upon  his  youth.  So  he  knocked  dif- 
fidently at  the  first  kitchen  door;  and  presently 
he  stood  abashed  in  a  burst  of  warm  light  from 
within. 

Shelter?  Oh,  ay!  T'  be  sure.  But  (in  quick 
and  resentful  suspicion): 

"B'y,"  Aunt  Phoebe  Luff  demanded,  "what 
ye  got  in  them  ile-skins  f     Pups  ?" 

"By-an'-by"  Brown  observed  that  there  were 
embers  in  the  kitchen  stove,  that  steam  was 
faintly  rising  from  the  spout  of  the  kettle. 

"Baby,''  said  he. 

Aunt  Phcebe  jumped.     "What!"  cried  she. 

"Jus'  a  baby,"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 

"Well! — ^you  give  that  there  baby  here." 
184 


BY-AN'-BY"    BROWN 


"I'll  be  glad  t',  ma'am,"  said  young  "By-an'- 
by"  Brown,  in  childish  tenderness,  still  with- 
holding the  bundle  from  the  woman's  extended 
arms,  "but  not  for  keeps." 

"For  keeps!"  Aunt  Phcebe  snorted. 

"No,  ma'am;  not  for  keeps.  I'm  'lowin'  t' 
fetch  it  up  myself,"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown, 
"by-an'-by." 

"  Dunderhead !"  Aunt  Phcebe  whispered,  softly. 

And  "By-an'-by"  Brown,  famihar  with  the 
exigency,  obediently  went  in. 

Then  there  were  lights  in  the  cottages  of 
Blunder  Cove:  instantly,  it  seemed.  And  com- 
pany— and  tea  and  hard  bread  and  chatter — in 
Skipper  Tom  Luff's  little  white  kitchen.  A  roar- 
ing fire  in  the  stove:  a  kettle  that  sang  and 
chuckled  and  danced,  glad  once  more  to  be  en- 
gaged in  the  real  business  of  life.  So  was  the 
cradle — ^glad  to  be  useful  again,  though  its  ac- 
tivity had  been  but  for  an  hour  suspended.  It 
went  to  work  in  a  business-like  way,  with  never 
a  creak,  in  response  to  the  gentle  toe  of  "  By-an'- 
by*'  Brown's  top-boot.  There  was  an  inquisi- 
tion, too,  through  which  "By-an'-by"  Brown 
crooned  to  the  baby,  "Hush-a-by!"  and  ab- 
sently answered,  "Uh-huh!"  and  "By-an'-by!"  as 

185 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

placid  as  could  be.  Concerning  past  troubles: 
Oh,  they  was — ^yesterday.  And  of  future  dif- 
ficulties: Well,  they  was  —  by-an'-by.  "Hush- 
a-by!"  and  "By-an'-by!"  So  they  gave  him  a 
new  name  —  "  By-an'-by  "  Brown  —  because  he 
was  of  those  whose  past  is  forgot  in  yesterday 
and  whose  future  is  no  more  inimical  than — 
well,  jus'  by-an'-by. 

"By-an'-by"  Brown  o'  Blunder  Cove — paddle- 
punt  fishin'  the  Blow-me-down  grounds.  .  .  . 

It  had  not  been  for  keeps.  "By-an'-by" 
Brown  resisted  in  a  fashion  so  resolute  that  no 
encroachment  upon  his  rights  was  accomplished 
by  Aunt  Phoebe  Luff.  He  had  wandered  too 
long  alone  to  be  willing  to  yield  up  a  property  in 
hearts  once  he  possessed  it.  And  Blunder  Cove 
approved.  The  logic  was  simple:  //  "By- 
an'-by  "  Brown  took  the  child  t'  raise,  why,  then, 
nobody  else  would  have  t'.  The  proceeding  was 
never  regarded  as  extraordinary.  Nobody  said, 
"How  queer!"  It  was  looked  upon  merely  as  a 
commendably  philanthropic  undertaking  on  the 
part  of  "By-an'-by"  Brown;  the  accident  of  his 
sex  and  situation  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
problem.  Thus,  when  Aunt  Phoebe's  fostering 
care  was  no  longer  imperative    "Bv-an'-by" 

i86 


BY-AN'-BY"  BROWN 


Brown  said  Now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
and  departed  with  the  baby.  By  that  time,  of 
course,  there  was  an  establishment:  a  white- 
washed cottage  by  the  water-side,  a  stage,  a  flake, 
a  punt — all  the  achievement  of  "  By-an'-by's " 
own  hands.  A  new  account,  too:  this  on  the 
ledger  of  Wull  &  Company,  trading  the  French 
Shore  with  the  Always  Loadedy  putting  in  off  and  on. 
"By-an'-by's"  baby  began  to  grow  percepti- 
bly. "By-an'-by"  just  kept  on  growing,  'lowin* 
t'  stop  sometime — by-an*-by.  It  happened — by- 
an'-by.  This  was  when  he  was  two-and-twenty: 
by  which  time,  according  to  enthusiastic  ob- 
servers from  a  more  knowing  and  appreciative 
world,  he  was  Magnificent.  The  splendor  con- 
sisted, it  was  said,  in  bulk,  muscle,  and  the  like, 
somewhat,  too,  perhaps,  in  poise  and  glance;  but 
Blunder  Cove  knew  that  these  external  and  rel- 
atively insignificant  aspects  were  transcended  by 
the  spiritual  graces  which  "By-an'-by'*  Brown 
displayed.  He  was  religious;  but  it  must  be 
added  that  he  was  amiable.  A  great,  tender, 
devoted  dog:  "By-an'-by"  Brown.  This  must 
be  said  for  him:  that  if  he  by-an'-byed  the  un- 
pleasant necessities  into  a  future  too  distant  to  be 
troublesome,  he  by-an'-byed  the  appearance  of 
evil  to  the  same  far  exile. 

187 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

After  all,  it  may  be  a  virtue  to  practise  the  art 
of  by-an'-bying. 

As  for  the  baby  at  this  period,  the  age  of  seven 
years,  the  least  said  the  less  conspicuous  the 
failure  to  say  anything  adequate.  Language  was 
never  before  so  helplessly  mocked.  It  may  be 
ventured,  however,  to  prove  the  poverty  of  words, 
that  dispassionately  viewed  through  the  eyes  of 
"By-an'-by"  Brown,  she  was  angehc.  "Jus'  a 
wee  liT  mite  of  a  angel!"  said  he.  Of  course, 
this  is  not  altogether  original,  nor  is  it  specific; 
but  it  satisfied  "By-an'-by"  Brown's  idea  of 
perfection.  A  slim  little  slip  of  a  maid  of  the 
roguishly  sly  and  dimpled  sort:  a  maid  of  delicate 
fashioning,  exquisite  of  feature — a  maid  of  im- 
pulsive affections.  Exact  in  everything;  and  ex- 
acting, too — in  a  captivating  way.  And  herein 
was  propagated  the  germ  of  disquietude  for  "  By- 
an'-by"  Brown:  promising,  indeed  (fostered  by 
the  folly  of  procrastination),  a  more  tragic  devel- 
opment. "By-an'-by's"  baby  was  used  to  say- 
ing, You  told  me  so.  Also,  But  you  promised. 
The  particular  difficulty  confronting  "By-an'- 
by"  Brown  was  the  baby's  insistent  curiosity,  not 
inconsistent  with  the  age  of  seven,  concerning 
the  whereabouts  of  her  father  and  the  time  and 
manner  of  his  return. 

i88 


BY-AN'-BY"   BROWN 


Brown  had  piqued  it  into  being:  just  by  say- 
ing— "  By-an'-by !" 

"Ay,"  says  she;  "but  when  will  he  be  comin* 
back  ?" 

"  Why,"  he  answered, bewildered — *'  by-an'-by !" 

It  was  a  familiar  evasion.  The  maid  frowned. 
"  Is  you  sure  ?"  she  demanded,  sceptically. 

"Ye  bet  ye!"  he  was  prompt  to  reply,  feeling 
bound  now,  to  convince  her,  whatever  came  of  it; 
"he'll  be  comin'  back — by-an'-by." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  maid,  relieved,  "I 
s'pose  so." 

Brown  had  never  disclosed  the  brutal  de- 
linquency of  Long  Bill  Tweak.  Not  to  the 
maid,  because  he  could  not  wound  her;  not  to 
Blunder  Cove,  because  he  would  not  shame  her. 
The  revelation  must  be  made,  of  course;  but  not 
now  —  by-an'-by.  The  maid  knew  that  her 
mother  was  dead  beyond  recall:  no  mystery  was 
ever  made  of  that;  and  there  ended  the  childish 
wish  and  wonder  concerning  that  poor  woman. 
But  her  father  ?  Here  was  an  inviting  mystery. 
No;  he  was  not  what  you  might  call  dead — ^jus' 
sort  o'  gone  away.  Would  he  ever  come  back .? 
Oh,  sure!  no  need  o'  frettin'  r.bout  that;  he'd 
be  back — by-an'-by.  Had  "By-an'-by"  Brown 
said  Never,  the  problem  would  have  been  dis- 

189 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

posed  of,  once  and  for  all :  the  fretting  over  with, 
once  and  for  all.  But  what  he  said  was  this  un- 
courageous  and  specious  by-an'-by.  So  the  maid 
waited  in  interested  speculation:  then  impatient- 
ly. For  she  was  used  to  saying,  You  told  me  so. 
Also,  But  then  you  promised.  \ 

As  by-an*-by  overhauled  by-an'-by  in  the  days 
of  "By-an'-by"  Brown,  and  as  the  ultimate  by- 
an'-by  became  imminent,  "By-an'-by"  Brown 
was  ever  more  disquieted. 

"But,"  says  the  maid,  "*by-an'-by'  is  never." 

"Oh,  my,  no!"  he  protested. 

She  tapped  the  tip  of  his  nose  with  a  long  little 
forefinger,  and  emphasized  every  word  with  a 
stouter  tap.     "Yes — it — is!"  said  she. 

"Not  nevery"  cried  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 

"Then,"  says  she,  "is  it  to-morrow?" 

Brown  violently  shook  his  head. 

"  Is  it  nex'  week  ?" 

"Goodness,  no!" 

"Well,"  she  insisted — and  she  took  "By-an*- 
by's"  face  between  her  palms  and  drew  it  close 
to  search  his  eyes — "  is  it  nex'  year  ?" 

"Maybe." 

She  touched  the  tip  of  her  white  little  nose  to  the 
sunburned  tip  of  his.    "  But  is  it  V^  she  persisted. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown,  reck- 
190 


"BY-AN'-BY"    BROWN 


lessly,  quite  overcome,  committing  himself  beyond 
redemption;  "nex'  year." 
And  "  By-an'-by's "  baby  remembered.  .  .  . 

Next  year  began,  of  course,  with  the  first  day 
of  January.  And  a  day  with  wind  and  snow  it 
was!  Through  the  interval  of  three  months 
preceding,  Brown  had  observed  the  approach  of 
this  veritable  by-an'-by  with  rising  alarm.  And 
on  New  Year's  Day,  why,  there  it  was :  by-an'- 
by  come  at  last!  "By-an'-by"  Brown,  though 
twenty-two,  was  frightened.  No  wonder!  Hith- 
erto his  life  had  not  been  perturbed  by  insoluble 
bewilderments.  But  how  to  produce  Long  Bill 
Tweak  from  the  mist  into  w'hich  he  had  vanished 
at  Back  Yard  Bight  of  the  Labrador  seven  years 
ago  ?  It  was  beyond  him.  Who  could  call  Bill 
Tweak  from  seven  years  of  time  and  the  very 
waste  places  of  space  ?  Not "  By-an'-by  "  Brown, 
who  could  only  ponder  and  sigh  and  scratch  his 
curly  head.  And  here  was  the  maid,  used  to 
saying,  as  maids  of  seven  will.  But  you  told  me 
so!  and.  You  promised!  So  "By-an'-by"  Brown 
was  downcast  as  never  before;  but  before  the 
day  was  spent  he  conceived  that  the  unforeseen 
might  yet  fortuitously  issue  in  the  salvation  of 
himself  and  the  baby. 

191 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"Maybe,"  thought  he — "by-an'-by!" 

As  January  progressed  the  maid  grew  more 
eager  and  still  more  confident.  He  promisedy 
thinks  she;  also,  He  told  me  so.  There  were 
times,  as  the  terrified  Brown  observed,  when  this 
eagerness  so  possessed  the  child  that  she  trembled 
in  a  fashion  to  make  him  shiver.  She  would 
start  from  her  chair  by  the  stove  when  a  knock 
came  late  o'  windy  nights  on  the  kitchen  door; 
she  would  stare  up  the  frozen  harbor  to  the  Tickle 
by  day — peep  through  the  curtains,  interrupt  her 
housewifely  duties  to  keep  watch  at  the  window. 

"Anyhow,  he  will  come,"  says  she,  quite  con- 
fidently, "by-an'-by." 

"Uh-huh!"  Brown  must  respond. 

What  was  a  shadow  upon  the  gentle  spirit  of 
"By-an'-by"  Brown  was  the  sunlight  of  certain 
expectation  irradiating  "  By-an'-by's  "  baby.  But 
the  maid  fell  ill.  Nobody  knew  why.  Sus- 
picion dwelled  like  a  skeleton  with  "By-an'-by'* 
Brown;  but  this  he  did  not  divulge  to  Blunder 
Cove.  Nothin'  much  the  matter  along  o'  she, 
said  the  Cove;  jus'  a  Httle  spell  o'  somethin'  or 
other.  It  was  a  childish  indisposition,  perhaps 
— but  come  with  fever  and  pallor  and  a  poignant 
restlessness.  "By-an'-by"  Brown  had  never  be- 
fore known  how  like  to  a  black  cloud  the  future 

192 


'•BY"AN*-BY"    BROWN 


of  a  man  might  be.  At  any  rate,  she  must  be 
put  to  bed:  whereupon,  of  course,  "By-an'-by" 
Brown  indefinitely  put  off  going  to  bed,  having 
rather  stand  watch,  he  said.  It  was  presently 
a  question  at  Blunder  Cove:  who  was  the  more 
wan  and  pitiable,  "  By-an'-by's "  baby,  being 
sick,  or  "  By-an'-by,"  being  anxious  .?  And  there 
was  no  cure  anywhere  to  be  had — no  cure  for 
either.  "By-an'-by"  Brown  conceived  that  the 
appearance  of  Long  Bill  Tweak  would  instantly 
work  a  miracle  upon  the  maid.  But  where  was 
Bill  Tweak  ?  There  was  no  magic  at  hand  to 
accomplish  the  feat  of  summoning  a  scamp  from 
Nowhere! 

One  windy  night  "By-an'-by"  Brown  sat  with 
the  child  to  comfort  her.  "I  'low,"  he  drawled, 
"that  you  wisht  a  wonderful  sight  that  your 
father  was  here." 

"Uh-huh!"  the  maid  exclaimed. 

Brown  sighed.     "I  s'pose,"  he  muttered. 

"Is  he  comin'  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Oh— by-an'-by!" 

"I  wisht  'twas  now,"  said  she.  "That  I 
does!" 

Brown  listened  to  the  wind.  It  was  blowing 
high  and  bitterly:  a  winter  wind,  with  snow  from 
the  northeast.     "By-an'-by"  was  troubled. 

193 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

"I  'low,"  said  he,  hopelessly,  "that  you'll  love 
un  a  sight,  won't  ye  ? — ^when  he  comes  ?" 

"Ye  bet  ye!"  the  maid  answered. 

"  More'n  ye  love — some  folks  ?" 

"A  lot,"  said  she. 

Brown  was  troubled.  He  heard  the  kitchen 
stove  snore  in  its  familiar  way,  the  kettle  bubble, 
the  old  wind  assault  the  cottage  he  had  builded 
for  the  baby;  and  he  remembered  recent  years 
— and  was  troubled. 

"Will  ye  love  un  more?"  he  asked,  anxiously, 
turning  his  face  from  the  child,  "than  ye  loves 
me?"  He  hesitated.  "Ye  won't,  will  ye?"  he 
implored. 

"'Twill  be  different,"  said  she. 

"Will  it  ?"  he  asked,  rather  vacantly. 

"Ye  see,"  she  explained,  "he'll  be  my  father.** 

"Then,"  suggested  "  By-an'-by,"  "ye'll  be  goin' 
away  along  o'  he  ? — ^when  he  comes  ?" 

"Oh,  my,  no!" 

"Ye'll  not  ?    Ye'll  stay  along  o'  me  ?" 

"Why,  ye  see,"  she  began,  bewildered,  "I'll — 
why,  o'  course,  I'll — oh,"  she  complained,  "what 
ye  ask  me  that  for  ?" 

"Jus'  couldn't  help  it,"  said  "By-an'-by," 
humbly. 

The  maid  began  to  cry. 
194 


"BY-AN'-BY-   BROWN 


"Don't!"  pleaded  "By-an'-by"  Brown.  "Jus' 
can't  stand  it.  I'll  do  anything  if  ye'U  on'y  stop 
cryin'.  Ye  can  have  your  father.  Ye  needn't 
love  me  no  more.  Ye  can  go  away  along  o'  he. 
An'  he'll  be  comin'  soon,  too.  Ye'll  see  if  he 
don't.     Jus'  by-an'-by — by-an'-byl" 

"'Tis  never,"  the  maid  sobbed. 

"No,  no!  By-an'-by  is  soon.  Why,"  cried 
"By-an'-by"  Brown,  perceiving  that  this  intelli- 
gence stopped  the  child's  tears,  "by-an'-by  is — 
wonderful  soon." 

"  To-morrow  ?" 

"Well,  no;  but—" 

"'Tis  never!"  she  wailed. 

"'Tis  nex'  week!"  cried  "By-an'-by" 
Brown.  .  .  . 

When  the  dawn  of  Monday  morning  con- 
fronted "By-an'-by"  Brown  he  was  appalled. 
Here  was  a  desperately  momentous  situation: 
by-an'-by  must  be  faced — at  last.  Where  was 
Long  Bill  Tweak  ?  Nobody  knew.  How  could 
Long  Bill  Tweak  be  fetched  from  Nowhere  ? 
Brown  scratched  his  head.  But  Long  Bill 
Tweak  must  be  fetched:  for  here  was  the  maid, 
chirpin*  about  the  kitchen — turned  out  early, 
ecod!  t'  clean  house  against  her  father's  coming. 

195 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Cured?  Ay;  that  she  was— the  mouse!  "By- 
an'-by"  Brown  dared  not  contemplate  her 
collapse  at  midnight  of  Saturday.  But  chance 
intervened:  on  Tuesday  morning  Long  Bill 
Tweak  made  Blunder  Cove  on  the  way  from 
Lancy  Loop  to  St.  John's  to  join  the  sealing  fleet 
in  the  spring  of  the  year.  Long  Bill  Tweak  in 
the  flesh!  It  was  still  blowing  high:  he  had 
come  out  of  the  snow — a  shadow  in  the  white 
mist,  rounding  the  Tickle  rocks,  observed  from 
all  the  windows  of  Blunder  Cove,  but  changing 
to  Long  Bill  Tweak  himself,  ill-kempt,  surly, 
gruff-voiced,  vicious-eyed,  at  the  kitchen  door  of 
"By-an'-by"  Brown's  cottage. 

Long  Bill  Tweak  begged  the  maid,  with  a 
bristle-whiskered  twitch — a  scowl,  mistakenly  de- 
livered as  a  smile — ^for  leave  to  lie  the  night  in 
that  place. 

The  maid  was  afraid  with  a  fear  she  had  not 
known  before.  "We're  'lowing  for  company," 
she  objected. 

"Come  in!"  "By-an'-by"  called  from  the 
kitchen. 

The  maid  fled  in  a  fright  to  the  inner  room, 
and  closed  the  door  upon  herself;  but  Long  Bill 
Tweak  swaggered  in. 

"Tweak!"  gasped  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 
196 


"BY-AN*-BY"    BROWN 


"Brown!"  growled  Long  Bill  Tweak, 

There  was  the  silence  of  uttermost  amaze- 
ment; but  presently,  with  a  jerk,  Tweak  in- 
dicated the  door  through  which  *'By-an'-by's" 
baby  had  fled. 

"  It  ?"  he  whispered. 

Brown  nodded. 

"  'Low  I'll  be  goin'  on,"  said  Long  Bill  Tweak, 
making  for  the  windy  day. 

"Ye'll  go,"  answered  "By-an'-by"  Brown, 
quietly,  interposing  his  great  body,  "when  ye' re 
let:  not  afore." 

Long  Bill  Tweak  contented  himself  with  the 
hospitality  of  "By-an'-by"  Brown.  .  .  . 

That  night,  when  Brown  had  talked  with  the 
maid's  father  for  a  long,  long  time  by  the  kitchen 
stove,  the  maid  being  then  turned  in,  he  softly 
opened  the  bedroom  door  and  entered,  closing  it 
absent-mindedly  behind  him,  dwelling  the  while, 
in  deep  distress,  upon  the  agreement  he  had 
wrested  by  threat  and  purchase  from  Long  Bill 
Tweak.  The  maid  was  still  awake  because  of 
terror;  she  was  glad,  indeed,  to  have  caught  sight 
of  "By-an'-by"  Brown's  broad,  kindly  young 
countenance  in  the  beam  of  light  from  the  kitchen, 
though  downcast,  and  she  snuggled  deeper  into 

197 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

the  blankets,  not  afraid  any  more.  "By-an'-by" 
touched  a  match  to  the  candle-wick  with  a  great 
hand  that  trembled.  He  lingered  over  the  simple 
act — loath  to  come  nearer  to  the  evil  necessity  of 
the  time.  For  Long  Bill  Tweak  was  persuaded 
now  to  be  fatherly  to  the  child;  and  "By-an'-by" 
Brown  must  yield  her,  according  to  her  wish. 
He  sat  for  a  time  on  the  edge  of  the  little  bed, 
clinging  to  the  maid's  hand;  and  he  thought,  in 
his  gentle  way,  that  it  was  a  very  small,  very  dear 
hand,  and  that  he  would  wish  to  touch  it  often, 
when  he  could  not. 

Presently  Brown  sighed :  then,  taking  heart,  he 
joined  issue  with  his  trouble. 

"I  *low,'*  he  began,  "that  you  wisht  your 
father  was  here." 

The  maid  did. 

"I  'low,"  he  pursued,  "that  you  wisht  he  was 
here  this  very  minute." 

That  the  maid  did! 

"I  'low,"  said  "By-an'-by,"  softly,  lifting  the 
child's  hands  to  his  lips,  "that  you  wisht  the  man 
in  the  kitchen  was  him." 

"No,"  the  maid  answered,  sharply. 

"Ye  doesn't?" 

"Ye  bet  ye — no!"  said  she. 

"  Eh  ?"  gasped  the  bewildered  Brown. 
198 


BY-AN'-BY"    BROWN 


The  maid  sat  upright  and  stiff  in  bed.  "Oh, 
my!"  she  demanded,  in  alarm;  "he  isnt,  is  he?" 

"No!"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 

"Sure?" 

"Isn't  I  jus'  toV  ye  so  ?"  he  answered,  beaming. 

Long  Bill  Tweak  followed  the  night  into  the 
shades  of  forgotten  time.  .  .  . 

Came  Wednesday  upon  "By-an'-by"  Brown 
in  a  way  to  make  the  heart  jump.  Midnight  of 
Saturday  was  now  fairly  over  the  horizon  of  his 
adventurous  sea.  Wednesday!  Came  Thursday 
— prompt  to  the  minute.  Days  of  bewildered 
inaction!  And  now  the  cottage  was  ship-shape 
to  the  darkest  corners  of  its  closets.  Ship-shape  as 
a  wise  and  knowing  maid  of  seven,  used  to  house- 
wifely occupations,  could  make  it:  which  was  as 
ship-shape  as  ship-shape  could  be,  though  you 
may  not  believe  it.  There  was  no  more  for  the 
maid  to  do  but  sit  with  folded  hands  and  con- 
fidently expectant  gaze  to  await  the  advent  of 
her  happiness.  Thursday  morning:  and  "By- 
an'-by"  Brown  had  not  mastered  his  bearings. 
Three  days  more:  Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday. 
It  occurred,  then,  to  "By-an'-by"  Brown — at 
precisely  ten  o'clock  of  Friday  morning — ^that  his 
hope  lay  in  Jim  Turley  of  Candlestick  Cove,  an 
14  199 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

obliging  man.  They  jus'  had  t'  be  a  father, 
didn't  they  ?  But  they  wasnt  no  father  no  more. 
Well,  then,  ecod!  make  one.  Had  t'  be  a  father, 
jom^how,  didn't  they  ,''  And — well — there  was 
Jim  Turley  o'  Candlestick  Cove.  He'd  answer. 
Why  not  Jim  Turley  o'  Candlestick  Cove,  an 
obligin'  man,  known  t'  be  such  from  Mother 
Burke  t'  the  Cape  Norman  Light  ?  He'd  'blige 
a  shipmate  in  a  mess  Hke  this,  ecod!  You  see 
if  he  didn't! 

Brown  made  ready  for  Candlestick  Cove. 

"But,"  the  maid  objected,  "what  is  I  t'  do  if 
father  comes  afore  night  V 

"Ah!"  drawled  "By-an'-by,"  blankly. 

"  Eh  ?'*  she  repeated. 

"Why,  o'  course,"  he  answered,  with  a  large 
and  immediate  access  of  interest,  drawing  the 
arm-chair  near  the  stove,  "you  jus'  set  un  there  t' 
warm  his  feet." 

"An'  if  he  doesn't  know  me .?"  she  protested. 

"Oh,  sure,"  "By-an'-by"  affirmed,  "the  ol' 
man  '11  know  you^  never  fear.  You  jus'  give  un 
a  cup  o'  tea  an'  say  I'll  be  back  afore  dark." 

"Well,"  the  maid  agreed,  dubiously. 

"I'll  be  off,"  said  Brown,  in  a  flush  of  em- 
barrassment, "when  I  fetches  the  wood  t'  keep 
your  father  cosey.     He'll  be  thirsty  an'  cold  when 

200 


BY-AN'-BY"    BROWN 


he  comes.  Ye'll  take  good  care  of  un,  won't 
ye  ?" 

"Ye  bet  ye!" 

"Mind  ye  get  them  there  ol'  feet  warm.  An' 
jus'  you  fair  pour  the  tea  into  un.  He's  used  t* 
his  share  o'  tea,  ye  bet!     /  knows  un." 

And  so  "By-an'-by"  Brown,  travelHng  over 
the  hills,  came  hopefully  to  Jim  Turley  of  Candle- 
stick Cove,  an  obliging  man,  whilst  the  maid 
kept  watch  at  the  window  of  the  Blunder  Cove 
cottage.  And  Jim  Turley  was  a  most  obligin* 
man.  'Blige  .f*  Why,  sure!  /'//'bligeye!  There 
was  no  service  difficult  or  obnoxious  to  the  self- 
ish sons  of  men  that  Jim  Turley  would  not  per- 
form for  other  folk — if  only  he  might  'blige.  Ye 
jus'  go  ast  Jim  Turley;  hell  'blige  ye.  And 
Jim  Turley  would  with  delight:  for  Jim  had  a 
passion  for  'bligin' — assiduously  seeking  oppor- 
tunities, even  to  the  point  of  intrusion.  Beam- 
ing Jim  Turley  o'  Candlestick  Cove:  poor,  shift- 
less, optimistic,  serene,  well-beloved  Jim  Turley, 
forever  cheerfully  sprawling  in  the  meshes  of  his 
own  difficulties!  Lean  Jim  Turley — forgetful  of 
his  interests  in  a  fairly  divine  satisfaction  with 
compassing  the  joy  and  welfare  of  his  fellows! 
I  shall  never  forget  him :  his  round,  flaring  smile, 
rippHng  under  his  bushy  whiskers,  a  perpetual 

201 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

delight,  come  any  fortune;  his  mild,  unself-con- 
scious,  sympathetic  blue  eyes,  looking  out  upon 
the  world  in  amazement,  perhaps,  but  yet  in 
kind  and  eager  inquiry  concerning  the  affairs 
of  other  folk;  his  blithe  "Yo-ho!"  at  labor,  and 
"Easy  does  it!"  Jim  Turley  o'  Candlestick  Cove 
— an'  obligin*  man! 

"In  trouble  ?"  he  asked  of"  By-an'-by"  Brown, 
instantly  concerned. 

"Not  'xactly  trouble,"  answered  "By-an'-by." 

"Sort  o' bothered?" 

"Well,  no,"  drawled  "By-an'-by"  Brown;  "but 
I  got  t'  have  a  father  by  Satu'day  night." 

"For  yerself  ?"  Jim  mildly  inquired. 

"For  the  maid,"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown; 
"an*  I  was  'lowin',"  he  added,  frankly,  "that 
you  might  'blige  her." 

"Well,  now,"  Jim  Turley  exclaimed,  "I'd 
like  t'  wonderful  well!  But,  ye  see,"  he  object- 
ed, faintly,  "bein'  a  ol'  bachelor  I  isn't  s'posed 
t'— " 

"Anyhow,"  "By-an'-by"  Brown  broke  in, 
"I  jus*  got  t'  have  a  father  by  Satu'day  night." 

"An*  I'm  a  religious  man,  an* — " 

"No  objection  t'  rehgion,"  Brown  protested. 
"I'm  strong  on  religion  m'self.  Jus'  as  soon 
have  a  religious  father  as  not.     Sooner.     Now," 

202 


BY-AN'-BY"    BROWN 


he  pleaded,  "they  isn't  nobody  else  in  the  world 
t'  'blige  me." 

"No,"  Jim  Turley  agreed,  in  distress;  "no — 
I  'low  not." 

"An'  I  jus'  got,'*  declared  Brown,  "t'  have  a 
father  by  Satu'day  night." 

"Course  you  is!"  cried  Jim  Turley,  instantly 
siding  with  the  woebegone.     "Jus*  got  t'!" 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  well,  pshaw!"  said  Jim  Turley,  "/'// 
'blige  ye!" 

The  which  he  did,  but  with  misgiving:  arriving 
at  Blunder  Cove  after  dark  of  Saturday,  un- 
observed by  the  maid,  whose  white  little  nose 
was  stuck  to  the  frosty  window-pane,  whose  eyes 
searched  the  gloom  gathered  over  the  Tickle  rocks, 
whose  ears  were  engaged  with  the  tick-tock  of 
the  impassive  clock.  No;  he  was  not  observed, 
however  keen  the  lookout:  for  he  came  sneaking 
in  by  Tumble  Gully,  'cordin'  t'  sailin'  orders,  to 
join  "  By-an'-by"  Brown  in  the  lee  of  the  meeting- 
house under  Anxiety  Hill,  where  the  conspiracy 
was  to  be  perfected,  in  the  light  of  recent  develop- 
ments, and  whence  the  sally  was  to  be  made. 
He  was  in  a  shiver  of  nervousness;  so,  too,  "By- 
an'-by"  Brown.  It  was  the  moment  of  inaction 
when  conspirators  must  forever  be  the  prey  of 

203 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

doubt  and  dread.  They  were  determined,  grim; 
they  were  most  grave — but  they  were  still  afraid. 
And  Jim  Turley's  conscience  would  not  leave 
him  be.  A  religious  man,  Jim  Turley!  On 
the  way  from  Candlestick  Cove  he  had  whipped 
the  perverse  thing  into  subjection,  like  a  sinner; 
but  here,  in  the  lee  of  the  meeting-house  by 
Anxiety  Hill,  with  a  winter's  night  fallen  like  a 
cold  cloud  from  perdition,  conscience  was  risen 
again  to  prod  him. 

An  obligin'  man,  Jim  Turley:  but  still  a  re- 
ligious man — knowing  his  master. 

"I  got  qualms,"  said  he. 

"Stummick?"  Brown  demanded,  in  alarm. 

"This  here  thing,"  Jim  Turley  protested, 
"isn't  a  religious  thing  to  do." 

"Maybe  not,"  replied  "By-an'-by"  Brown, 
doggedly;  "but  I  promised  the  maid  a  father  by 
Satu'day  night,  an'  I  got  t'  have  un." 

"'Twould  ease  my  mind  a  lot,"  Jim  Turley 
pleaded,  "t'  ask  the  parson.     Come,  now!" 

"By-an'-by,"  said  "By-an'-by"  Brown. 

"No,"  Jim  Turley  insisted;  "now." 

The  parson  laughed :  then  laughed  again,  with 
his  head  thrown  back  and  his  mouth  fallen  open 
very  wide.  Presently,  though,  he  turned  grave, 
and  eyed  "By-an'-by"  Brown  in  a  questioning, 

204 


"BY-AN*-BY"    BROWN 


anxious  way,  as  though  seeking  to  discover  in 
how  far  the  big  man's  happiness  might  be 
chanced:  whereupon  he  laughed  once  more, 
quite  reassured.  He  was  a  pompous  bit  of  a 
parson,  this,  used  to  commanding  the  conduct  of 
Blunder  Cove;  to  controlling  its  affairs;  to  shap- 
ing the  destinies  of  its  folk  with  a  free,  bold  hand : 
being  in  this  both  wise  and  most  generously  con- 
cerned, so  that  the  folk  profited  more  than  they 
knew.  And  now,  with  "By-an*-by"  Brown  and 
the  maid  on  his  hands,  to  say  nothing  of  poor 
Jim  Turley,  he  did  not  hesitate;  there  was  noth- 
ing for  it,  thinks  he,  but  to  get  "By-an'-by" 
Brown  out  of  the  mess,  whatever  came  of  it, 
and  to  arrange  a  future  from  which  all  by-an'- 
bying  must  be  eliminated.  A  new  start,  thinks 
he;  and  the  by-an'-by  habit  would  work  no  fur- 
ther injury.  So  he  sat  "By-an'-by"  Brown  and 
Jim  Turley  by  the  kitchen  stove,  without  a  word 
of  explanation,  and,  still  condescending  no  hint 
of  his  purpose,  but  bidding  them  both  sit  tight  to 
their  chairs,  went  out  upon  his  business,  which, 
as  may  easily  be  surmised,  was  with  the  maid. 

"Bein'    a   religious   man,"   said   Jim   Turley, 
solemnly,  "he'll  mend  it." 

When  the  parson  came  back  there  was  nothing 
205 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

within  her  comprehension,  which  was  quite  suf- 
ficient to  her  need.  *By-an'-by*'  Brown  was 
sent  home,  with  a  kindly  God-bless-ye!  and  an 
injunction  of  the  most  severe  description  to  have 
done  with  by-an'-bying.  He  stumbled  into  his 
own  kitchen  in  a  shamefaced  way,  prepared,  like 
a  mischievous  lad,  to  be  scolded  until  his  big 
ears  burned  and  his  scalp  tingled;  and  he  was  a 
long,  long  time  about  hanging  up  his  cap  and 
coat  and  taking  off  his  shoes,  never  once  glancing 
toward  the  maid,  who  sat  silent  beyond  the 
kitchen  stove.  And  then,  when  by  no  further 
subterfuge  could  he  prolong  his  immunity,  he 
turned  boldly  in  her  direction,  patiently  and 
humbly  to  accept  the  inevitable  correction,  a 
promise  to  do  better  already  fashioned  upon  his 
tongue.  And  there  she  sat,  beyond  the  glowing 
stove,  grinning  in  a  way  to  show  her  white  little 
teeth.  Tears?  Maybe:  but  only  traces — ^where- 
left,  indeed,  for  the  maid  to  learn,  or,  at  least, 
by  her  eyes  shone  all  the  brighter.  And  "By- 
an*-by"  Brown,  reproaching  himself  bitterly,  sat 
down,  with  never  a  word,  and  began  to  trace 
strange  pictures  on  the  floor  with  the  big  toe  of 
his  gray-socked  foot,  while  the  kettle  and  the 
clock  and  the  fire  sang  the  old  chorus  of  comfort 
and  cheer. 

206 


BY-AN'-BY"   BROWN 


The  big  man's  big  toe  got  all  at  once  furiously 
interested  in  its  artistic  occupation. 

"Ah-ha!"  says  "  By-an'-by's "  baby,  "/  found 
you  out!'* 

"Uh-huh!"  she  repeated,  threateningly,  "I 
found  you  out." 

"Did  ye?"  "By-an'-by"  softly  asked. 

The  maid  came  on  tiptoe  from  behind  the 
stove,  and  made  an  arrangement  of  "By-an'-by" 
Brown's  long  legs  convenient  for  straddling;  and 
having  then  settled  herself  on  his  knees,  she 
tipped  up  his  face  and  fetched  her  own  so  close 
that  he  could  not  dodge  her  eyes,  but  must  look 
in,  whatever  came  of  it;  and  then — to  the  re- 
viving delight  of  "By-an'-by"  Brown — she  tap- 
ped his  nose  with  a  long  little  forefinger,  em- 
phasizing every  word  with  a  stouter  tap,  saying: 

"Yes— I— did!" 

"Uh-huh!'*  he  chuckled. 

"An',"  said  she,  "I  don't  want  no  father." 

"Ye  don't?"  he  cried,  incredulous. 

"Because,"  she  declared,  "I'm  'lowin*  t*  take 
care  o'  you — an'  marry  you." 

"Ye  is  ?"  he  gasped. 

"Ye  bet  ye,  b'y,"  said  "By-an'-b/s"  baby— 
"by-an'-by!" 

Then  they  hugged  each  other  hard. 
207 


VIII 
THEY    WHO    LOSE    AT    LOVE 

AND  old  Khalil  Khayyat,  simulating  courage, 
i\  went  out,  that  the  reconciliation  of  Yusef 
Khouri  with  the  amazing  marriage  might  surely 
be  accomplished.  And  returning  in  dread  and 
bewildered  haste,  he  came  again  to  the  pastry- 
shop  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  where  young  Salim  Awad, 
the  light  of  his  eyes,  still  lay  limp  over  the  round 
table  in  the  little  back  room,  grieving  that 
Haleema,  Khouri's  daughter,  of  the  tresses  of 
night,  the  star-eyed,  his  well-beloved,  had  of  a 
sudden  wed  Jimmie  Brady,  the  jolly  truckman. 
The  smoke  hung  dead  and  foul  in  the  room;  the 
coffee  was  turned  cold  in  the  cups,  stagnant  and 
greasy;  the  coal  on  the  narghile  was  grown  gray 
as  death:  the  magic  of  great  despair  had  in  a  twin- 
kling worked  the  change  of  cheer  to  age  and 
shabbiness  and  frigid  gloom.  But  the  laughter 
and  soft  voices  in  the  outer  room  were  all  un- 

208 


THEY    WHO    LOSE    AT    LOVE 

changed,  still  light,  lifted  indifferently  above  the 
rattle  of  dice  and  the  aimless  strumming  of  a 
canoun;  and  beyond  was  the  familiar  evening 
hum  and  clatter  of  New  York's  Washington 
Street,  children's  cries  and  the  patter  of  feet, 
drifting  in  at  the  open  door;  and  from  far  off, 
as  before,  came  the  low,  receding  roar  of  the 
Elevated  train  rounding  the  curve  to  South  Ferry. 

Khayyat  smiled  in  compassion:  being  old,  used 
to  the  healing  of  years,  he  smiled;  and  he  laid  a 
timid  hand  on  the  head  of  young  Salim  Awad. 

"Salim,  poet,  the  child  of  a  poet,"  he  whis- 
pered, "grieve  no  more!" 

"My  heart  is  a  gray  coal,  O  KhaHl!"  sighed 
Salim  Awad,  who  had  lost  at  love.  "  For  a  mo- 
ment it  glowed  in  the  breath  of  love.  It  is 
turned  cold  and  gray;  it  lies  forsaken  in  a  vast 
night." 

"For  a  moment,"  mused  Khalil  Khayyat, 
sighing,  but  yet  smiling,  "it  glowed  in  the  breath 
of  love.  Ah,  Salim,"  said  he,  "there  is  yet  the 
memory  of  that  ecstasy!" 

"My  heart  is  a  brown  leaf:  it  flutters  down  the 
wind  of  despair;  it  is  caught  in  the  tempest  of 
great  woe." 

"It  has  known  the  sunlight  and  the  tender 
breeze." 

209 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

Salim  looked  up;  his  face  was  wet  and  white; 
his  black  hair,  fallen  in  disarray  over  his  forehead, 
was  damp  with  the  sweat  of  grief;  his  eyes,  soul- 
ful, glowing  in  deep  shadows,  he  turned  to  some 
place  high  and  distant.  "My  heart,"  he  cried, 
passionately,  clasping  his  hands,  "is  a  thing  that 
for  a  moment  lived,  but  is  forever  dead!  It  is  in 
a  grave  of  night  and  heaviness,  O  Khalil,  my 
friend!" 

"It  is  like  a  seed  sown,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat. 
'     "To  fail  of  harvest!" 

"Nay;  to  bloom  in  compassionate  deeds.  The 
flower  of  sorrow  is  the  joy  of  the  world.  In  the 
broken  heart  is  the  hope  of  the  hopeless;  in  the 
agony  of  poets  is  their  sure  help.  Hear  me,  O 
Salim  Awad!"  the  old  man  continued,  rising, 
lifting  his  lean  brown  hand,  his  voice  clear, 
vibrant,  possessing  the  quality  of  prophecy. 
"The  broken  heart  is  a  seed  sown  by  the  hand  of 
the  Beneficent  and  Wise.  Into  the  soil  of  life 
He  casts  it  that  there  may  be  a  garden  in  the 
world.  With  a  free,  glad  hand  He  sows,  that 
the  perfume  and  color  of  high  compassion  may 
glorify  the  harvest  of  ambitious  strife;  and  prog- 
ress is  the  fruit  of  strife  and  love  the  flower  of 
compassion.  Yea,  O  Salim,  poet,  the  child  of 
a  poet,  taught  of  a  poet,  which  am  I,  the  broken 

210 


THEY   WHO   LOSE   AT    LOVE 

heart  is  a  seed  sown  gladly,  to  flower  in  this 
beauty.  Blessed,"  Khalil  Khayyat  concluded, 
smiling,  "oh,  blessed  be  the  Breaker  of  Hearts!" 

"  Blessed,"  asked  Salim  Awad,  wondering, 
"  be  the  Breaker  of  Hearts  ?" 

"Yea,  O  Salim,"  answered  Khalil  Khayyat, 
speaking  out  of  age  and  ancient  pain;  "even 
blessed  be  the  Breaker  of  Hearts!" 

Salim  Awad  turned  again  to  the  place  that 
was  high  and  distant — beyond  the  gaudy,  dirty 
ceiling  of  the  little  back  room — where,  it  may  be, 
the  form  of  Haleema,  the  star-eyed,  of  the  slender, 
yielding  shape  of  the  tamarisk,  floated  in  a  radiant 
cloud,  compassionate  and  glorious. 

"What  is  my  love?"  he  whispered.  "Is  it  a 
consuming  fire  ?  Nay,"  he  answered,  his  voice 
rising,  warm,  tremulous;  "rather  is  it  a  little 
blaze,  kindled  brightly  in  the  night,  that  it  may 
comfort  my  beloved.  What  is  my  love,  O  Ha- 
leema, daughter  of  Khouri,  the  star-eyed  .?  Is  it 
an  arrow,  shot  from  my  bow,  that  it  may  tear 
the  heart  of  my  beloved  .?  Nay;  rather  is  it  a 
shield  against  the  arrows  of  sorrow — my  shield, 
the  strength  of  my  right  arm:  a  refuge  from  the 
cruel  shafts  of  life.  What  are  my  arms  ?  Are 
they  bars  of  iron  to  imprison  my  beloved  .?  Nay," 
cried  Salim  Awad,  striking  his  breast;  "they  are 

211 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

but  a  resting-place.  A  resting-place,"  he  re- 
peated, throwing  wide  his  arms,  "to  which  she 
will  not  come!  Oh,  Haleema!"  he  moaned, 
flinging  himself  upon  the  little  round  table, 
"Haleema!  Jewel  of  all  riches!  Star  of  the 
night!  Flower  of  the  world!  Haleema  .  .  . 
Haleema  .  .  ." 

"Poet!"  Khalil  Khayyat  gasped,  clutching  the 
little  round  table,  his  eyes  flashing.  "The  child 
of  a  poet,  taught  of  a  poet,  which  am  I!" 

They  were  singing  in  the  street — a  riot  of  Irish 
lads,  tenement-born;  tramping  noisily  past  the 
door  of  Nageeb  Fiani's  pastry-shop  to  Battery 
Park.  And  Khalil  Khayyat  sat  musing  deeply, 
his  ears  closed  to  the  alien  song,  while  distance 
mellowed  the  voices,  changed  them  to  a  vagrant 
harmony,  made  them  one  with  the  mutter  of 
Washington  Street;  for  there  had  come  to  him 
a  great  thought — a  vision,  high,  glowing,  such  as 
only  poets  may  know — concerning  love  and  the 
infinite  pain;  and  he  sought  to  fashion  the 
thought:  which  must  be  done  with  tender  care 
in  the  classic  language,  lest  it  suffer  in  beauty 
or  eflPect  being  uttered  in  haste  or  in  the  common 
speech  of  the  people.  Thus  he  sat:  low  in  his 
chair,  his  head  hanging  loose,  his  eyes  jumping, 
his  brown,  wrinkled  face  fearfully  working,  until 

212 


THEY   WHO    LOSE    AT   LOVE 

every  hair  of  his  unshaven  beard  stood  restlessly 
on  end.  And  SaHm  Awad,  looking  up,  perceived 
these  throes:  and  thereby  knev*^  that  some  pro- 
phetic word  was  immediately  to  be  spoken. 

"They  who  lose  at  love,"  Khayyat  muttered, 
"  must .  .  .  They  who  lose  at  love  .  .  ." 

"Khalil!" 

The  Language  Beautiful  was  for  once  per- 
verse. The  words  would  not  come  to  Khalil 
Khayyat.  He  gasped,  tapped  the  table  with 
impatient  fingers — and  bent  again  to  the  task. 

"They  who  lose  at  love  .  .  ." 

"Khalil!"  Salim  Awad's  voice  was  plaintive. 
"What  must  they  do,  O  Khalil,"  he  implored, 
"who  lose  at  love.?  Tell  me,  KhaHl!  What 
must  they  do  P" 

"They  who  lose  at  love  .  .  .  They  who  lose  at 
love  must  .  .  .  They  who  lose  at  love  must  .  .  . 
seek  .  .  ." 

"  Speak,  O  Khalil,  concerning  those  wretched 
ones!     And  they  must  seek  ?" 

Khayyat  laughed  softly.  He  sat  back  in  the 
chair — proudly  squared  his  shoulders.  "And 
now  I  know!"  he  cried,  in  triumph.  He  cleared 
his  throat.  "They  who  lose  at  love,"  he  de- 
claimed, "must  seek  .  .  ."  He  paused  abruptly. 
There  had  been  a  warning  in  the  young  lover's 

213 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

eyes:  after  all,  in  exceptional  cases,  poetry  might 
not  wisely  be  practised. 

"Come,  Khalil!"  Salim  Awad  purred.  "They 
who  lose  at  love  ?  What  is  left  for  them  to 
do?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Khalil  Khayyat,  looking 
away,  much  embarrassed,  "  I  will  not  tell  you." 

Salim  caught  the  old  man's  wrist.  "What  is 
the  quest .?"  he  cried,  hoarsely,  bending  close. 

"I  may  not  tell." 

SaHm's  fingers  tightened;  his  teeth  came  to- 
gether with  a  snap;  his  face  flushed — a  quick 
flood  of  red,  hot  blood. 

"What  is  the  quest?"  he  demanded. 

"I  dare  not  tell." 

"The  quest?" 

"I  will  not  tell!" 

Nor  would  Khalil  Khayyat  tell  Salim  Awad 
what  must  be  sought  by  such  as  lose  at  love;  but 
he  called  to  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  greatest  player  in 
all  the  world,  to  bring  the  violin,  that  Salim 
might  hear  the  music  of  love  and  be  comforted. 
And  in  the  little  back  room  of  the  pastiy-shop 
near  the  Battery,  while  the  trucks  rattled  over 
the  cobblestones  and  the  songs  of  the  Irish 
troubled  the  soft  spring  night,  Nageeb  Fiani 
played  the  Song  of  Love  to  Lali,  which  the  blind 

214 


THEY    WHO   LOSE   AT   LOVE 

prince  had  made,  long,  long  ago,  before  he  died 
of  love;  and  in  the  sigh  and  wail  and  passionate 
complaint  of  that  dead  woe  the  despair  of  Salim 
Awad  found  voice  and  spent  itself;  and  he 
looked  up,  and  gazing  deep  into  the  dull  old 
eyes  of  Khalil  Khayyat,  new  light  in  his  own,  he 
smiled. 

"Yet,  O  Khalil,"  he  whispered,  "will  I  go 
upon  that  quest!" 

Now,  Salim  Awad  went  north  to  the  bitter 
coasts — to  the  shore  of  rock  and  gray  sea — there 
to  carry  a  pack  from  harbor  to  harbor  of  a  barren 
land,  ever  seeking  in  trade  to  ease  the  sorrows 
of  love.  Neither  sea  nor  land — neither  naked 
headland  nor  the  unfeeling  white  expanse — 
neither  sunlit  wind  nor  the  sleety  gale  in  the 
night — helped  him  to  forgetfulness.  But,  as  all 
the  miserable  know,  the  love  of  children  is  a  vast 
delight:  and  the  children  of  that  place  are  blue- 
eyed  and  hungry;  and  it  is  permitted  the  stranger 
to  love  them.  .  .  .  On  he  went,  from  Lobster 
Tickle  to  Snook's  Arm,  from  Dead  Man's  Cove 
to  Righteous  Harbor,  trading  laces  and  trinkets 
for  salt  fish;  and  on  he  went,  sanguine,  light  of 
heart,  blindly  seeking  that  which  the  losers  at 
love  must  seek;  for  Khalil  Khayyat  had  told  him 
IS  215 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

that  the  mysterious  Thing  was  to  be  found  in 
that  place. 

With  a  jolly  wind  abeam  —  a  snoring  breeze 
from  the  southwest — the  tight  little  Bully  Boy^ 
fore-and-after,  thirty  tons,  Skipper  Josiah  Top, 
was  footing  it  through  the  moonlight  from  Tutt's 
Tickle  to  the  Labrador:  bound  down  north  for 
the  first  fishing  of  that  year.  She  was  tearing 
through  the  sea — eagerly  nosing  the  slow,  black 
waves;  and  they  heartily  slapped  her  bows,  broke, 
ran  hissing  down  the  rail,  lay  boiling  in  the  broad, 
white  wake,  stretching  far  into  the  luminous  mist 
astern.  Salim  Awad,  the  peddler,  picked  up  at 
Bread-and-Water  Harbor,  leaned  upon  the  rail — 
staring  into  the  mist:  wherein,  for  him,  were 
melancholy  visions  of  the  star-eyed  maid  of 
Washington  Street.  ...  At  midnight  the  wind 
veered  to  the  east — a  swift,  ominous  change — 
and  rose  to  the  pitch  of  half  a  gale,  blowing  cold 
and  capriciously.  It  brought  fog  from  the  dis- 
tant open;  the  night  turned  clammy  and  thick; 
the  Bully  Boy  found  herself  in  a  mess  of  dirty 
weather.  Near  dawn,  being  then  close  inshore, 
off  the  Seven  Dogs,  which  growled  to  leeward, 
she  ran  into  the  ice — the  first  of  the  spring  floes : 
a  field  of  pans,  slowly  drifting  up  the  land.     And 

2l6 


THEY    WHO    LOSE    AT   LOVE 

when  the  air  was  gray  she  struck  on  the  Devil's 
Finger,  ripped  her  keel  out,  and  filled  like  a  sieve; 
and  she  sank  in  sixty  seconds,  as  men  say — every 
strand  and  splinter  of  her. 

But  first  she  spilled  her  crew  upon  the  ice. 

The  men  had  leaped  to  port  and  starboard, 
fore  and  aft,  in  unthinking  terror,  each  des- 
perately concerned  with  his  own  life;  they  were 
now  distributed  upon  the  four  pans  which  had 
been  within  leaping  distance  when  the  Bully 
Boy  settled:  white  rafts,  floating  on  a  black, 
slow-heaving  sea;  lying  in  a  circle  of  murky 
fog;  creeping  shoreward  with  the  wind.  If  the 
wind  held — and  it  was  a  true,  freshening  wind, 
— they  would  be  blown  upon  the  coast  rocks, 
within  a  measurable  time,  and  might  walk 
ashore;  if  it  veered,  the  ice  would  drift  to  sea, 
where,  ultimately,  in  the  uttermost  agony  of 
cold  and  hunger,  every  man  would  yield  his  life. 
The  plight  was  manifest,  familiar  to  them, 
every  one;  but  they  were  wise  in  weather  lore: 
they  had  faith  in  the  consistency  of  the  wind  that 
blew;  and,  in  the  reaction  from  bestial  terror, 
they  bandied  primitive  jokes  from  pan  to  pan — 
save  the  skipper,  who  had  lost  all  that  he  had, 
and  was  helplessly  downcast:  caring  not  a  whit 

217 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

whether  he  lived  or  died;  for  he  had  loved  his 
schooner,  the  work  of  his  hands,  his  heart's 
child,  better  than  his  life. 

It  chanced  that  Salim  Awad,  who  loved  the 
star-eyed  daughter  of  Khouri,  and  in  this  land 
sought  to  ease  the  sorrow  of  his  passion — it 
chanced  that  this  Salim  was  alone  with  Tommy 
Hand,  the  cook's  young  son — a  tender  lad,  now 
upon  his  first  voyage  to  the  Labrador.  And 
the  boy  began  to  whimper. 

"Dad,"  he  called  to  his  father,  disconsolate, 
"I  wisht — I  wisht — I  was  along  o'  you — on  your 
pan. 

The  cook  came  to  the  edge  of  the  ice.  "Does 
you,  lad?"  he  asked,  softly.  "Does  you  wisht 
you  was  along  o'  me.  Tommy .?  Ah,  but,"  he 
said,  scratching  his  beard,  bewildered,  "you 
isn't." 

The  space  of  black  water  between  was  short, 
but  infinitely  capacious;  it  was  sullen  and  cold 
— intent  upon  its  own  wretchedness:  indifferent 
to  the  human  pain  on  either  side.  The  child 
stared  at  the  water,  nostrils  lifting,  hands  clinch- 
ed, body  quivering:  thus  as  if  at  bay  in  the 
presence  of  an  implacable  terror.  He  turned  to 
the  open  sea,  vast,  gray,  heartless :  a  bitter  waste 
— might   and    immensity    appalling.     Wistfully 

218 


THEY    WHO    LOSE   AT   LOVE 

then  to  the  land,  upon  which  the  scattered  pack 
was  advancing,  moving  in  disorder,  gathering  as 
it  went:  bold,  black  coast,  naked,  uninhabited — 
but  yet  sure  refuge:  being  greater  than  the  sea, 
which  it  held  confined;  solid  ground,  unmoved 
by  the  wind,  which  it  flung  contemptuously  to 
the  sky.  And  from  the  land  to  his  father's  large, 
kind  face. 

"No,  b'y,"  the  cook  repeated,  "you  isn't. 
You  sees.  Tommy  lad,"  he  a^ded,  brightening, 
as  with  a  new  idea,  "you  isnt  along  o'  me." 

Tommy  rubbed  his  eyes,  which  were  now  wet. 
"I  wisht,"  he  sobbed,  his  under  lip  writhing,  "I 
was — along  o'  you!" 

"  I  isn't  able  t'  swim  t*  you.  Tommy,"  said  the 
cook;  "an',  ah.  Tommy!"  he  went  on,  reproach- 
fully, wagging  his  head,  "you  isn't  able  t'  swim 
t'  me.  I  tol'  you,  Tommy — ^when  I  went  down 
the  Labrador  las'  year — I  toV  you  t'  I'arn  t' 
swim.  I  tol'  you.  Tommy — don't  you  mind  the 
time } — ^when  you  was  goin'  over  the  side  o'  th' 
ol'  GahrieVs  Trumpet^  an'  I  had  my  head  out  o' 
the  galley,  an'  'twas  a  fair  wind  from  the  sou'east, 
an'  they  was  weighin'  anchor  up  for'ard — don't 
you  mind  the  day,  lad  .? — I  tol'  you,  Tommy, 
you  must  I'arn  t'  swim  afore  another  season. 
Now,  see  what's  come  t'  you!"  still  reproachfully, 

219 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

but  with  deepening  tenderness.  "An'  all  along 
o'  not  mindin'  your  dad!  'Now,'  says  you,  *I 
wisht  I'd  been  a  good  lad  an'  minded  my  dad.' 
Ah,  Tommy — shame!  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  mind 
your  dad  after  this." 

Tommy  began  to  bawl. 

"Never  you  care,  Tommy,"  said  the  cook. 
"The  wind's  blowin'  we  ashore.  You  an'  me  'II 
be  saved." 

"I  wants  t'  be  along  o'  you!"  the  boy  sobbed. 

"Ah,  Tommy!  Tou  isn't  alone.  You  got 
the  Jew." 

"But  I  wants  you!'* 

"You'll  take  care  o'  Tommy,  won't  you, 
Joe?'; 

Salim  Awad  smiled.  He  softly  patted  Tommy 
Hand's  broad  young  shoulder.  "I  weel  have," 
said  he,  slowly,  desperately  struggling  with  the 
language,  "look  out  for  heem.  I  am  not  can," 
he  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "do  ver'  well." 

"Oh,"  said  the  cook,  patronizingly,  "you're 
able  for  it,  Joe." 

"  I  am  can  try  eet,"  Salim  answered,  courteous- 
ly bowing,  much  delighted.     "Much  'bliged." 

Meantime  Tommy  had,  of  quick  impulse, 
stripped  off  his  jacket  and  boots.  He  made  a 
ball  of  the  jacket  and  tossed  it  to  his  father. 

220 


THEY   WHO    LOSE   AT    LOVE 

"What  you  about.  Tommy?"  the  cook  de- 
manded.    "  Is  you  goin'  t'  swim  ?" 

Tommy  answered  with  the  boots;  whereupon 
he  ran  up  and  down  the  edge  of  the  pan,  and,  at 
last,  sHpped  like  a  reluctant  dog  into  the  water, 
where  he  made  a  frothy,  ineffectual  commotion; 
after  which  he  sank.  When  he  came  to  the  sur- 
face Salim  Awad  hauled  him  inboard. 

"You  isn't  goin'  t'  try  again,  is  you,  Tommy  ?" 
the  cook  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

Salim  Awad  began  to  breathe  again;  his  eyes, 
too,  returned  to  their  normal  size,  their  usual  place. 

"No,"  the  cook  observed,  "'Tis  wise  not  to. 
You  isn't  able  for  it,  lad.  Now,  you  sees  what 
comes  o'  not  mindin'  your  dad." 

The  jacket  and  boots  were  tossed  back. 
Tommy  resumed  the  jacket. 

"Tommy,"  said  the  cook,  severely,  "isn't  you 
got  no  more  sense  'n  that  ?" 

"Please,  sir,"  Tommy  whispered,  "I  forgot." 

"  Oh,  did  you!  Did  you  forget  ?  I'm  thinkin'. 
Tommy,  I  hasn't  been  bringin'  of  you  up  very 
well." 

Tommy  stripped  himself  to  his  rosy  skin.  He 
wrung  the  water  out  of  his  soggy  garments  and 
with  difficulty  got  into  them  again. 

2121 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"You  better  be  jumpin'  about  a  bit  by  times," 
the  cook  advised,  "or  you'll  be  cotchin'  cold. 
An*  your  mamma  wouldn't  like  thaty*  he  con- 
cluded, "if  she  ever  come  t'  hear  on  it." 

"Ay,  sir;  please,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

They  waited  in  dull  patience  for  the  wind  to 
blow  the  floe  against  the  coast. 

It  began  to  snow — a  thick  fall,  by-and-by: 
the  flakes  fine  and  dry  as  dust.  A  woolly  curtain 
shut  coast  and  far-off  sea  from  view.  The  wind, 
rising  still,  was  charged  with  stinging  frost.  It 
veered;  but  it  blew  sufficiently  true  to  the  favor- 
able direction:  the  ice  still  made  ponderously  for 
the  shore,  reeling  in  the  swell.  .  .  .  The  great  pan 
bearing  Salim  Awad  and  Tommy  Hand  lagged; 
it  was  soon  left  behind :  to  leeward  the  figures  of 
the  skipper,  the  cook,  the  first  hand,  and  the 
crew  turned  to  shadows — dissolved  in  the  cloud 
of  snow.  The  cook's  young  son  and  the  love- 
lorn peddler  from  Washington  Street  alone  peo- 
pled a  world  of  ice  and  water,  all  black  and 
white:  heaving,  confined.  They  huddled,  cower- 
ing from  the  wind,  waiting — helpless,  patient: 
themselves  detached  from  the  world  of  ice  and 
water,  which  clamored  round  about,  unrecognized. 
The  spirit  of  each  returned :  the  one  to  the  Cedars 

ZZ2 


THEY   WHO   LOSE   AT   LOVE 

of  Lebanon,  the  other  to  Lobster  Cove;  and  in 
each  place  there  was  a  mother.  In  plights  like 
this  the  hearts  of  men  and  children  turn  to  dis- 
tant mothers;  for  in  all  the  world  there  is  no  rest 
serene — no  rest  remembered — like  the  first  rest 
the  spirits  of  men  know. 

When  dusk  began  to  dye  the  circumambient 
cloud,  the  pan  of  ice  was  close  inshore;  the  shape 
of  the  cliffs — a  looming  shadow — ^was  vague  in 
the  snow  beyond.  There  was  no  longer  any  roar 
of  surf;  the  first  of  the  floe,  now  against  the  coast, 
had  smothered  the  breakers.  A  voice,  coming 
faintly  into  the  wind,  apprised  Tommy  Hand 
that  his  father  was  ashore.  .  .  .  But  the  pan  still 
moved  sluggishly. 

Tommy  Hand  shivered. 

"Ah,  Tom-eel"  Salim  Awad  said,  anxiously. 
"Run!  Jump!  You  weel  have — ^what  say? — 
cotch  seek.  Ay — cotch  thee  seek.  Eh  ?  R-r-run, 
Tom-ee!" 

"Ay,  ay,"  Tommy  Hand  answered.  "I'll  be 
jumpin*  about  a  bit,  I'm  thinkin',  t'  keep  warm 
— as  me  father  bid  me  do." 

"Queek!"  cried  Salim,  laughing. 

"Ay,"  Tommy  muttered;  "as  me  father  bid 
me  do.'* 

^23 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"Jump,  Tom-ee!"  Salim  clapped  his  hands. 
"Hi,  hi!     Dance,  Tom-ee!" 

In  the  beginning  Tommy  was  deliberate  and 
ponderous;  but  as  his  limbs  were  suppled — and 
when  his  blood  ran  warm  again— the  dance 
quickened;  for  Salim  Awad  slapped  strangely 
inspiring  encouragement,  and  with  droning  "la, 
la!"  and  sharp  "hi,  hi!"  excited  the  boy  to  mad 
leaps — and  madder  still.  "La,  la!"  and  "Hi, 
hi!"  There  was  a  mystery  in  it.  Tommy  leaped 
high  and  fast.  "La,  la!"  and  "Hi,  hi!"  In 
response  to  the  strange  Eastern  song  the  fisher- 
boy's  grotesque  dance  went  on.  .  .  .  Came  then  the 
appalling  catastrophe:  the  pan  of  rotten,  brittle 
salt-water  ice  cracked  under  the  lad;  and  it  fell 
in  two  parts,  which,  in  the  heave  of  the  sea,  at 
once  drifted  wide  of  each  other.  The  one  part 
was  heavy,  commodious;  the  other  a  mere  un- 
stable fragment  of  what  the  whole  had  been: 
and  it  was  upon  the  fragment  that  Salim  Awad 
and  Tommy  Hand  were  left.  Instinctively  they 
sprawled  on  the  ice,  which  was  now  overweight- 
ed—  unbalanced.  Their  faces  were  close;  and 
as  they  lay  rigid — while  the  ice  wavered  and 
the  water  covered  it  —  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  .  .  .  There  was  not  room  for 
both. 

224 


THEY   WHO   LOSE   AT   LOVE 

"Tom-ee,"  Sallm  Awad  gasped,  his  breath 
indrawn,  quivering,  "I  am — mus' — go!'* 

The  boy  stretched  out  his  hand — an  instinctive 
movement,  the  impulse  of  a  brave  and  generous 
heart — to  stop  the  sacrifice. 

"Hush!"  SaHm  Awad  whispered,  hurriedly, 
lifting  a  finger  to  command  peace.  "I  am — for 
one  queek  time — have  theenk.     Hush,  Tom-ee!'* 

Tommy  Hand  was  silent. 

And  Salim  Awad  heard  again  the  clatter  and 
evening  mutter  of  Washington  Street,  children's 
cries  and  the  patter  of  feet,  drifting  in  from  the 
soft  spring  night — heard  again  the  rattle  of  dice 
in  the  outer  room,  and  the  aimless  strumming  of 
the  canoun — heard  again  the  voice  of  Khalil 
Khayyat,  lifted  concerning  such  as  lose  at  love. 
And  Salim  Awad,  staring  into  a  place  that  was 
high  and  distant,  beyond  the  gaudy,  dirty  ceiling 
of  the  little  back  room  of  Nageeb  Fiani's  pastry- 
shop  near  the  Battery,  saw  again  the  form  of 
Haleema,  Khouri's  star-eyed  daughter,  floating 
in  a  cloud,  compassionate  and  glorious.  "*The 
sun  as  it  sets,'*'  he  thought,  in  the  high  words  of 
Antar,  spoken  of  Abla,  his  beloved,  the  daughter 
of  Malik,  when  his  heart  was  sore,  "  *  turns  toward 
her  and  says,  "Darkness  obscures  the  land,  do 

225 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

thou  arise  in  my  absence."  The  brilhant  moon 
calls  out  to  her:  "Come  forth,  for  thy  face  is  hke 
me,  when  I  am  in  all  my  glory."  The  tamarisk- 
trees  complain  of  her  in  the  morn  and  in  the  eve, 
and  say:  "Away,  thou  waning  beauty,  thou  form 
of  the  laurel!"  She  turns  away  abashed,  and 
throws  aside  her  veil,  and  the  roses  are  scattered 
from  her  soft,  fresh  cheeks.  Graceful  is  every 
limb;  slender  her  waist;  love-beaming  are  her 
glances;  waving  is  her  form.  The  lustre  of  day 
sparkles  from  her  forehead,  and  by  the  dark 
shades  of  her  curling  ringlets  night  itself  is  driven 
away  I ' " .  .  .  They  who  lose  at  love  .?  Upon  what 
quest  must  the  wretched  ones  go  ^  And  Khalil 
Khayyat  had  said  that  the  Thing  was  to  be  found 
in  this  place.  .  .  .  Salim  Awad's  lips  trembled: 
because  of  the  loneliness  of  this  death — and  be- 
cause of  the  desert,  gloomy  and  infinite,  lying 
beyond. 

"Tom-ee,"  Salim  Awad  repeated,  smiling 
now,  "I  am — mus* — ^go.     Goo*-bye,  Tom-eel" 

"No,  no!" 

In  this  hoarse,  gasping  protest  Salim  Awad 
perceived  rare  sweetness.  He  smiled  again — de- 
light, approval.  "Ver'  much  'bliged,"  he  said, 
politely.     Then  he  rolled  off  into  the  water.  .  .  . 

226 


THEY   WHO   LOSE   AT   LOVE 

One  night  in  winter  the  wind,  driving  up  from 
the  Battery,  whipped  a  gray,  soggy  snow  past  the 
door  of  Nageeb  Fiani's  pastry-shop  in  Washing- 
ton Street.  The  shop  was  a  cosey  shelter  from 
the  weather;  and  in  the  outer  room,  now  crowded 
with  early  idlers,  they  were  preaching  revolution 
and  the  shedding  of  blood  —  boastful  voices, 
raised  to  the  falsetto  of  shallow  passion.  Khalil 
Khayyat,  knowing  well  that  the  throne  of  Abdul- 
Hamid  would  not  tremble  to  the  talk  of  Washing- 
ton Street,  sat  unheeding  in  the  little  back  room; 
and  the  coal  on  the  narghile  was  glowing  red, 
and  the  coffee  was  steaming  on  the  round  table, 
and  a  cloud  of  fragrant  smoke  was  in  the  air. 
In  the  big,  black  book,  lying  open  before  the 
poet,  were  to  be  found,  as  always,  the  thoughts 
of  Abo  Elola  Elmoarri. 

Tanous,  the  newsboy — the  son  of  Yusef,  the 
father  of  Samara,  by  many  called  Abosama- 
ra  —  threw  Kawkab  Elhorriah  on  the  cook's 
counter. 

"News  of  death!'*  cried  he,  as  he  hurried  im- 
portantly on.     *' Kawkab!    News  of  death!" 

The  words  caught  the  ear  of  Khalil  Khayyat. 
"News  of  death  ?"  mused  he.  "It  is  a  massacre 
in  Armenia."  He  turned  again,  with  a  hopeless 
sigh,  to  the  big,  black  book. 

227 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"News  of  death!"  cried  Nageeb  Fiani,  in  the 
outer  room.     "What  is  this?" 

The  death  of  SaHm  Awad :  being  communicat- 
ed, as  the  editor  made  known,  by  one  who  knew, 
and  had  so  informed  an  important  person  at  St. 
John's,  who  had  despatched  the  news  south 
from  that  far  place  to  Washington  Street.  .  .  .And 
when  Nageeb  Fiani  had  learned  the  manner  of 
the  death  of  Salim  Awad,  he  made  haste  to 
Khalil  Khayyat,  holding  Kawkah  Elhorriah  open 
in  his  hand. 

"There  is  news  of  death,  O  Khalil!"  said  he. 

"Ah,"  Khayyat  answered,  with  his  long  finger 
marking  the  place  in  the  big,  black  book,  "  there 
has  been  a  massacre  in  Armenia.  God  will  yet 
punish  the  murderer." 

"No,  Khalil." 

Khayyat  looked  up  in  alarm.  "The  Turks 
have  not  shed  blood  in  Beirut  ?" 

"No,  Khalil." 

"Not  so.?  Ah,  then  the  mother  of  Shishim 
has  been  cast  into  prison  because  of  the  sedition 
uttered  by  her  son  in  this  place;  and  she  has  there 
died." 

"No,  Khalil." 

"Nageeb,"  Khayyat  demanded,  quietly,  "of 
whom  is  this  sad  news  spoken  ?" 

228 


THEY   WHO    LOSE   AT   LOVE 

"The  news  is  from  the  north." 

Khayyat  closed  the  book.  He  sipped  his  coffee, 
touched  the  coal  on  the  narghile  and  puffed  it 
to  a  glow,  contemplated  the  gaudy  wall-paper, 
watched  a  spider  pursue  a  patient  course  toward 
the  ceiHng;  at  last  opened  the  big,  black  book,  and 
began  to  turn  the  leaves  with  aimless,  nervous 
fingers.  Nageeb  stood  waiting  for  the  poet  to 
speak;  and  in  the  doorway,  beyond,  the  people 
from  the  outer  room  had  gathered,  waiting  also 
for  words  to  fall  from  the  lips  of  this  man;  for 
the  moment  was  great,  and  the  poet  was  great. 

"Salim  Awad,"  Khayyat  muttered,  "is  dead." 

"Salim  is  dead.  He  died  that  a  little  one 
might  live." 

"That  a  little  one  might  live?" 

"Even  so,  Khalil — that  a  child  might  have 
life." 

Khayyat  smiled.  "The  quest  is  ended,"  he 
said.     "It  is  well  that  Salim  is  dead." 

It  is  well .?  The  people  marvelled  that  Khalil 
Khayyat  should  have  spoken  these  cruel  words. 
It  is  well  ?     And  Khalil  Khayyat  had  said  so  .? 

"That  Salim  should  die  in  the  cold  water?" 
Nageeb  Fiani  protested. 

"That  Salim  should  die — the  death  that  he 
did.     It  is  well." 

229 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

The  word  was  soon  to  be  spoken;  out  of  the 
mind  and  heart  of  Khalil  Khayyat,  the  poet, 
great  wisdom  would  appear.  There  was  a 
crowding  at  the  door:  the  people  pressed  closer 
that  no  shade  of  meaning  might  be  lost;  the  dark 
faces  turned  yet  more  eager;  the  silence  deepened, 
until  the  muffled  rattle  of  trucks,  lumbering 
through  the  snowy  night,  and  the  roar  of  the 
Elevated  train  were  plain  to  be  heard.  What 
would  the  poet  say.?  What  word  of  eternal 
truth  would  he  speak  ? 

"It  is  well  !*'*  Nageeb  Fiani  whispered. 

"It  is  well." 

The  time  was  not  yet  come.  The  people  still 
crowded,  still  shuffled — still  breathed.  The  poet 
waited,  having  the  patience  of  poets. 

"Tell  us,  O  Khalil!"  Nageeb  Fiani  implored. 

"They  who  lose  at  love,"  said  Khalil  Khayyat, 
fingering  the  leaves  of  the  big,  black  book,  "  must 
patiently  seek  some  high  death." 

Then  the  people  knew,  beyond  peradventure, 
that  Khalil  Khayyat  was  indeed  a  great  poet. 


IX 
THE   REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S   TRAP 

TEHOSHAPHAT  RUDD  of  Satan's  Trap  was 
*J  shy — able-bodied,  to  be  sure,  if  a  gigantic 
frame  means  anything,  and  mature,  if  a  family 
of  nine  is  competent  evidence,  but  still  as  shy  as 
a  child.  Moreover,  he  had  the  sad  habit  of  anx- 
iety: whence  tense  eyelids,  an  absent,  poignant 
gaze,  a  perpetual  pucker  between  the  brows. 
His  face  was  brown  and  big,  framed  in  tawny, 
soft  hair  and  beard,  and  spread  with  a  delicate 
web  of  wrinkles,  spun  by  the  weather — a  round 
countenance,  simple,  kindly,  apathetic.  The 
wind  had  inflamed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  and 
turned  the  rims  blood  red;  but  the  wells  in  the 
midst  were  deep  and  clear  and  cool.  Reserve, 
courageous  and  methodical  diligence  at  the  fish- 
ing, a  quick,  tremulous  concern  upon  salutation 
— by  these  signs  the  folk  of  his  harbor  had  long 
ago  been  persuaded  that  he  was  a  fool;  and  a  fool 
x6  231 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

he  was,  according  to  the  convention  of  the  New- 
foundland outports  :  a  shy,  dull  fellow,  whose 
interests  were  confined  to  his  punt,  his  gear,  the 
grounds  off  the  Tombstone,  and  the  bellies  of  his 
young  ones.  He  had  no  part  with  the  disputatious 
of  Satan's  Trap:  no  voice,  for  example,  in  the 
rancorous  discussions  of  the  purposes  and  ways 
of  the  Lord  God  Almighty,  believing  the  purposes 
to  be  wise  and  kind,  and  the  ways  the  Lord's  own 
business.  He  was  shy,  anxious,  and  preoccupied; 
wherefore  he  was  called  a  fool,  and  made  no  an- 
swer: for  doubtless  he  was  a  fool.  And  what  did 
it  matter  .?    He  would  fare  neither  better  nor  worse. 

Nor  would  Jehoshaphat  wag  a  tongue  with  the 
public-spirited  men  of  Satan's  Trap:  the  times 
and  the  customs  had  no  interest,  no  significance, 
for  him;  he  was  troubled  with  his  own  concerns. 
Old  John  Wull,  the  trader,  with  whom  (and  no 
other)  the  folk  might  barter  their  fish,  personified 
all  the  abuses,  as  a  matter  of  course.     But — 

"I  'low  I'm  too  busy  t'  think,"  Jehosphaphat 
would  reply,  uneasily.  "I'm  too  busy.  I — I — 
why,  I  got  t'  tend  my  fish .'" 

This  was  the  quality  of  his  folly. 

It  chanced  one  summer  dawn,  however,  when 
the  sky  was  flushed  with  tender  light,  and  the 

232 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

shadows  were  trooping  westward,  and  the  sea 
was  placid,  that  the  punts  of  Timothy  Yule  and 
Jehoshaphat  Rudd  went  side  by  side  to  the  Tomb- 
stone grounds.  It  was  dim  and  very  still  upon 
the  water,  and  solemn,  too,  in  that  indifferent 
vastness  between  the  gloom  and  the  rosy,  swelling 
light.  Satan's  Trap  lay  behind  in  the  shelter 
and  shadow  of  great  hills  laid  waste — a  lean,  im- 
poverished, listless  home  of  men. 

"You  dunderhead!"  Timothy  Yule  assured 
Jehoshaphat.     "He've  been  robbin'  you," 

"  Maybe,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  listlessly.  "  I  been 
givin'  the  back  kitchen  a  coat  o'  lime,  an'  I  isn't 
had  no  time  t'  give  t'  thinkin'." 

"An'  he've  been  robbin'  this  harbor  for  forty 
year." 

"Dear  man!"  Jehoshaphat  exclaimed,  in  dull 
surprise.     "  Have  he  told  you  that  ?" 

"Told  mel"  cried  Timothy.  "No,"  he  added, 
with  bitter  restraint;  "he've  not." 

Jehoshaphat  was  puzzled.  "Then,"  said  he, 
"  how  come  you  t'  know  ?'* 

"Why,  they  says  so." 

Jehoshaphat's  reply  was  gently  spoken,  a  com- 
passionate rebuke.  "An  I  was  you,  Timothy," 
said  he,  "  I  wouldn't  be  harsh  in  judgment.  'Tisn't 
quite  Christian." 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"My  God!"  ejaculated  the  disgusted  Timothy. 

After  that  they  pulled  in  silence  for  a  time. 
Jehoshaphat's  face  was  averted,  and  Timothy 
was  aware  of  having,  in  a  moment  of  impatience, 
not  only  committed  a  strategic  indiscretion,  but 
of  having  betrayed  his  innermost  habit  of  pro- 
fanity. The  light  grew  and  widened  and  yel- 
lowed; the  cottages  of  Satan's  Trap  took  defi- 
nite outline,  the  hills  their  ancient  form,  the  sea 
its  familiar  aspect.  Sea  and  sky  and  distant 
rock  were  wide  awake  and  companionably  smil- 
ing. The  earth  was  blue  and  green  and  yellow, 
a  glittering  place. 

"Look  you!  Jehoshaphat,"  Timothy  demand- 
ed; "is  you  in  debt?" 

"lis." 

"An*  is  you  ever  been  out  o'  debt?" 

"I  isn't." 

"  How  come  you  t'  know  ?" 

"Why,"  Jehoshaphat  explained,  "Mister  Wull 
told  me  so.  An'  whatever,"  he  qualified,  "  father 
was  in  debt  when  he  died,  an'  Mister  Wull  told 
me  I  ought  t'  pay.  Father  was  my  father," 
Jehoshaphat  argued,  "an'  I  'lowed  I  would  pay. 
For,"  he  concluded,  "'twas  right." 

"  Is  he  ever  give  you  an  account  ?" 

"Well,  no — no,  he  haven't.  But  it  wouldn't 
234 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

do  no  good,  for  I've  no  learnin',  an'  can't 
read." 

"No,"  Timothy  burst  out,  "an'  he  isn't  give 
nobody  no  accounts." 

"Well,"  Jehoshaphat  apologized,  "heVe  a  good 
deal  on  his  mind,  lookin'  out  for  the  wants  of 
us  folk.  He've  a  wonderful  lot  o'  brain  labor. 
He've  all  them  letters  t'  write  t'  St.  John's,  an' 
he've  got  a  power  of  'rithmetic  t'  do,  an'  he've  got 
the  writin'  in  them  big  books  t'  trouble  un,  an' — " 

Timothy  sneered. 

"Ah,  well,"  sighed  Jehoshaphat,  "an  I  was 
you,  Timothy,  I  wouldn't  be  harsh  in  judgment." 

Timothy  laughed  uproariously. 

"Not  harsh,"  Jehoshaphat  repeated,  quietly — 
"not  in  judgment." 

"Damn  un!"  Timothy  cursed  between  his 
teeth.  "  The  greedy  squid,  the  devil-fish's  spawn, 
with  his  garden  an'  his  sheep  an'  his  cow!  Tou 
got  a  cow,  Jehoshaphat  ?  Tou  got  turnips  an' 
carrots  t  Tou  got  ol'  Bill  Lutt  t'  gather  soil,  an' 
plant,  an'  dig,  an'  weed,  while  you  smokes  plug- 
cut  in  the  sunshine  ?  Where's  your  garden,  Je- 
hoshaphat ?  Where's  your  onions  .''  The  green 
lump-fish!  An'  where  do  he  get  his  onions,  an' 
where  do  he  get  his  soup,  an'  where  do  he  get  his 
cheese  an'  raisins  ?     'Tis  out  o'  you  an'  me  an' 

235 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

all  the  other  poor  folk  o'  Satan's  Trap.  'Tis 
from  the  fish,  an'  he  never  cast  a  line.  'Tis 
from  the  fish  that  we  takes  from  the  grounds  while 
he  squats  like  a  lobster  in  the  red  house  an'  in 
the  shop.  An'  he  gives  less  for  the  fish  'n  he 
gets,  an'  he  gets  more  for  the  goods  an'  grub  'n 
he  gives.  The  thief,  the  robber,  the  whale's 
pup!  Is  you  able,  Jehoshaphat,  t'  have  the  doc- 
tor from  Sniffle's  Arm  for  your  woman!  Is  you 
able  t'  feed  your  kids  with  cow's  milk  an'  baby- 
food  ?" 

Jehoshaphat  mildly  protested  that  he  had  not 
known  the  necessity. 

"An'  what,"  Timothy  proceeded,  "is  you  ever 
got  from  the  grounds  but  rheumatiz  an'  salt- 
water sores  ?" 

"I  got  enough  t'  eat,"  said  Jehoshaphat. 

Timothy  was  scornful. 

"Well,"  Jehoshaphat  argued,  in  defence  of 
himself,  "the  world  have  been  goin*  for'ard  a 
wonderful  long  time  at  Satan's  Trap,  an*  nobody 
else  haven't  got  no  more'n  just  enough." 

"Enough!"  Timothy  fumed.  "'Tis  kind  o' 
the  Satan's  Trap  trader  t'  give  you  that!  /'//  tell 
un,"  he  exploded;  "I'll  give  un  a  piece  o'  my 
mind  afore  I  dies." 

"Don't!"  Jehoshaphat  pleaded. 
236 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

Timothy  snorted  his  indignation. 

"I  wouldn't  be  rash,"  said  Jehoshaphat. 
"Maybe,"  he  warned,  "he'd  not  take  your  fish 
no  more.  An*  maybe  he'd  close  the  shop  an*  go 
away.** 

"Jus*  you  wait,**  said  Timothy. 

"Don*t  you  do  it,  lad!"  Jehoshaphat  begged. 
"'Twould  make  such  a  wonderful  fuss  in  the 
world!'* 

"An*  would  you  think  o*  that  ?** 

"I  isn't  got  time  t'  think,"  Jehoshaphat  com- 
plained. "I'm  busy.  I  'low  I  got  my  fish  t'  cotch 
an*  cure,     I  isn't  got  time.    I — I — I'm  too  busy." 

They  were  on  the  grounds.  The  day  had 
broken,  a  blue,  serene  day,  knowing  no  disquie- 
tude»  They  cast  their  grapnels  overside,  and 
they  fished  until  the  shadows  had  fled  around  the 
world  and  were  hurrying  out  of  the  east.  And 
they  reeled  their  lines,  and  stowed  the  fish,  and 
patiently  pulled  toward  the  harbor  tickler,  talking 
not  at  all  of  the  Satan's  Trap  trader,  but  only  of 
certain  agreeable  expectations  which  the  young 
Timothy  had  been  informed  he  might  entertain 
with  reasonable  certainty. 

"I  *low,'*  said  Jehoshaphat,  when  they  were 
within  the  harbor,  **I  understand.  I  got  the  hang 
of  it,"  he  repeated,  with  a  little  smile,  "now.** 

237 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"Of  what?**  Timothy  wondered. 

"Well,**  Jehoshaphat  explained,  "*tis  your 
first.** 

This  was  a  sufficient  explanation  of  Timothy's 
discontent.  Jehoshaphat  remembered  that  he, 
too,  had  been  troubled.,  fifteen  years  ago,  when 
the  first  of  the  nine  had  brought  the  future  to  his 
attention.  He  was  more  at  ease  when  this  en- 
lightenment came. 

Old  John  Wull  was  a  gray,  lean  little  widower, 
with  a  bald  head,  bowed  legs,  a  wide,  straight, 
thin-lipped  mouth,  and  shaven,  ashy  cheeks.  His 
eyes  were  young  enough,  blue  and  strong  and 
quick,  often  peering  masterfully  through  the 
bushy  brows,  which  he  could  let  drop  like  a  cur- 
tain. In  contrast  with  the  rugged  hills  and 
inimitable  sea  and  stout  men  of  Satan*s  Trap,  his 
body  was  withered  and  contemptibly  diminutive. 
His  premises  occupied  a  point  of  shore  within  the 
harbor — a  wharf,  a  storehouse,  a  shop,  a  red 
dwelling,  broad  drying-flakes,  and  a  group  of 
out-buildings,  all  of  which  were  self-sufficient  and 
proud,  and  looked  askance  at  the  cottages  that 
lined  the  harbor  shore  and  strayed  upon  the  hills 
beyond. 

It  was  his  business  to  supply  the  needs  of  the 
238 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

folk  in  exchange  for  the  fish  they  took  from  the 
sea — the  barest  need,  the  whole  of  the  catch. 
Upon  this  he  insisted,  because  he  conscientiously 
believed,  in  his  own  way,  that  upon  the  fruits  of 
toil  commercial  enterprise  should  feed  to  satiety, 
and  cast  the  peelings  and  cores  into  the  back 
yard  for  the  folk  to  nose  like  swine. 

Thus  he  was  accustomed  to  allow  the  fifty 
illiterate,  credulous  families  of  Satan's  Trap 
sufl'icient  to  keep  them  warm  and  to  quiet  their 
stomachs,  but  no  more;  for,  he  complained: 
"Isn't  they  got  enough  on  their  backs  .f"'  and, 
"Isn't  they  got  enough  t*  eat?"  and,  "Lord!" 
said  he,  "they'll  be  wantin*  figs  an'  joolry  next." 

There  were  times  when  he  trembled  for  the 
fortune  he  had  gathered  in  this  way — in  years 
when  there  were  no  fish,  and  he  must  feed  the 
men  and  women  and  human  litters  of  the  Trap 
for  nothing  at  all,  through  which  he  was  courage- 
ous, if  niggardly.  When  the  folk  complained 
against  him,  he  wondered,  with  a  righteous  wag 
of  the  head,  what  would  become  of  them  if  he 
should  vanish  with  his  property  and  leave  them 
to  fend  for  themselves.  Sometimes  he  reminded 
them  of  this  possibiHty;  and  then  they  got  afraid, 
and  thought  of  their  young  ones,  and  begged  him 
to   forget    their   complaint.     His    only    disquie- 

239 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

tude  was  the  fear  of  hell ;  whereby  he  was  led  to 
pay  the  wage  of  a  succession  of  parsons,  if  they 
preached  comforting  doctrine  and  blue-pencilled 
the  needle's  eye  from  the  Testament;  but  not 
otherwise.  By  some  wayward,  compeUing  sense 
of  moral  obligation,  he  paid  the  school-teacher, 
invariably,  generously,  so  that  the  little  folk  of 
Satan's  Trap  might  learn  to  read  and  write  in 
the  winter  months.  'Rithmetic  he  condemned, 
but  tolerated,  as  being  some  part  of  that  unholy, 
imperative  thing  called  I'arnin';  but  he  had  no 
feeling  against  readin'  and  writin'. 

There  was  no  other  trader  within  thirty  miles. 

"They'll  trade  with  me,"  John  Wull  would 
say  to  himself,  and  be  comforted,  "or  they'll 
starve." 

It  was  literally  true. 

In  that  winter  certain  gigantic  forces,  with 
which  old  John  Wull  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do,  were  inscrutably  passionate.  They  went  their 
way,  in  some  vast,  appalling  quarrel,  indifferent 
to  the  consequences.  John  Wull's  soul,  money, 
philosophy,  the  hopes  of  Satan's  Trap,  the  vari- 
ous agonies  of  the  young,  were  insignificant. 
Currents  and  winds  and  frost  had  no  knowledge 
of  them.     It  was  a  late  season:  the  days  were 

240 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 


gray  and  bitter,  the  air  was  frosty,  the  snow  lay 
crisp  and  deep  in  the  valleys,  the  harbor  water 
was  frozen.  Long  after  the  time  for  blue  winds 
and  yellow  hills  the  world  was  still  sullen  and 
white.  Easterly  gales,  blowing  long  and  strong, 
swept  the  far  outer  sea  of  drift-ice — drove  it  in 
upon  the  land,  pans  and  bergs,  and  heaped  it 
against  the  cliffs.  There  was  no  safe  exit  from 
Satan's  Trap.  The  folk  were  shut  in  by  ice  and 
an  impassable  wilderness.  This  was  not  by  the 
power  or  contriving  of  John  Wull:  the  old  man  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  he  compelled  the  sea- 
son, impiously,  it  may  be,  into  conspiracy  with 
him.  By-and-by,  in  the  cottages,  the  store  of 
food,  which  had  seemed  sufficient  when  the  first 
snow  flew,  was  exhausted.  The  flour-barrels  of 
Satan's  Trap  were  empty.  Full  barrels  were  in 
the  storehouse  of  John  Wull,  but  in  no  other 
place.  So  it  chanced  that  one  day,  in  a  swirling 
fall  of  snow,  Jehoshaphat  Rudd  came  across  the 
harbor  with  a  dog  and  a  sled. 

John  Wull,  from  the  little  office  at  the  back  of 
the  shop,  where  it  was  warm  and  still,  watched 
the  fisherman  breast  the  white  wind. 

"Mister  Wull,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  when  he 
stood  in  the  office,  "I  'low  I'll  be  havin'another 
barrel  o'  flour." 

241 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

Wull  frowned. 

"Ay,"  Jehoshaphat  repeated,  perplexed;  "an- 
other barrel." 

Wull  pursed  his  lips. 

"O'  flour,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  staring. 

The  trader  drummed  on  the  desk  and  gazed 
out  of  the  window.  He  seemed  to  forget  that 
Jehoshaphat  Rudd  stood  waiting.  Jehoshaphat 
felt  awkward  and  out  of  place;  he  smoothed  his 
tawny  beard,  cracked  his  fingers,  scratched  his 
head,  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  Some 
wonder  troubled  him,  then  some  strange  alarm. 
He  had  never  before  realized  that  the  lives  of  his 
young  were  in  the  keeping  of  this  man. 

"Flour,"  he  ventured,  weakly — "one  barrel." 

Wull  turned.     "It's  gone  up,"  said  he. 

"Have  it,  now!"  Jehoshaphat  exclaimed.  "I 
*lowed  last  fall,  when  I  paid  eight,"  he  proceed- 
ed, "that  she'd  dumb  as  high  as  she  could  get 
'ithout  fallin'.  But  she've  gone  up,  says  you  ? 
Dear  man!" 

"Sky  high,"  said  the  trader. 

"Dear  man!" 

The  stove  was  serene  and  of  good  conscience. 
It  labored  joyously  in  response  to  the  clean- 
souled  wind.  For  a  moment,  while  the  trader 
watched  the  snow  through  his  bushy  brows  and 

242 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

Jehoshaphat  Rudd  hopelessly  scratched  his  head, 
its  hearty,  honest  roar  was  the  only  voice  lifted 
in  the  little  office  at  the  back  of  John  Wull's 
shop. 

"An*  why  ?"  Jehoshaphat  timidly  asked, 
bcarcity. 

**Oh,'*  said  Jehoshaphat,  as  though  he  under- 
stood. He  paused.  "Isn't  you  got  as  much 
as  you  had  ?''  he  inquired. 

The  trader  nodded. 

"Isn't  you  got  enough  in  the  storehouse  t*  last 
till  the  mail-boat  runs  ?" 

"Plenty,  thank  God!" 

"Scarcity,"  Jehoshaphat  mused.  "Mm-m-m! 
Oh,  I  seesy"  he  added,  vacantly.  "Well,  Mister 
Wull,"  he  sighed,  "I  'low  I'll  take  one  of  Early 
Rose  an'  pay  the  rise." 

Wull  whistled  absently. 

"Early  Rose,"  Jehoshaphat  repeated,  with  a 
quick,  keen  glance  of  alarm. 

The  trader  frowned. 

"Rose,"  Jehoshaphat  muttered.  He  licked 
his  lips.  "Of  Early,"  he  reiterated,  in  a  gasp, 
"Rose." 

"All  right,  Jehoshaphat." 

Down  came  the  big  [key  from  the  nail.  Je- 
hoshaphat's    round    face   beamed.  -  The   trader 

243 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

slapped  his  ledger  shut,  moved  toward  the  door, 
but  stopped  dead,  and  gazed  out  of  the  windov/, 
while  his  brows  fell  over  his  eyes,  and  he  fingered 
the  big  key. 

"Gone  up  t'  eighteen,"  said  he,  without  turn- 
ing. 

Jehoshaphat  stared  aghast. 

"Wonderful  high  for  flour,"  the  trader  con- 
tinued, in  apologetic  explanation;  "but  flour's 
wonderful  scarce." 

"'Tisn't  right!"  Jehoshaphat  declared.  "Eigh- 
teen dollars  a  barrel  for  Early  Rose  ?  'Tisn't 
right!" 

The  key  was  restored  to  the  nail. 

"I  can't  pay  it.  Mister  Wull.  No,  no,  man, 
I  can't  do  it.  Eighteen!  Mercy  o' God !  'Tisn't 
right!     'Tis  too  much  for  Early  Rose." 

The  trader  wheeled. 

"An'  I  wont  pay  it,"  said  Jehoshaphat. 

"You  don't  have  to,"  was  the  placid  reply. 

Jehoshaphat  started.  Alarm — a  sudden  vision 
of  his  children — quieted  his  indignation.  "But, 
Mister  Wull,  sir,"  he  pleaded,  "I  got  t'  have  it. 
I — ^why — I  just  got  t'  have  it!" 

The  trader  was  unmoved. 

"Eighteen!"  cried  Jehoshaphat,  flushing. 
"Mercy  o'   God!     I   says   'tisn't   right." 

244. 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

"'Tis  the  price." 

"Tisn't  right!" 

Wull's  eyes  were  now  flashing.  His  lips  were 
drawn  thin  over  his  teeth.  His  brows  had  fallen 
again.  From  the  ambush  they  made  he  glared 
at  Jehoshaphat. 

"I  say,"  said  he,  in  a  passionless  voice,  "that 
the  price  o'  flour  at  Satan*s  Trap  is  this  day 
eighteen." 

Jehoshaphat  was  in  woful  perplexity. 

"Eighteen,"  snapped  Wull.    "Hear  me?" 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Outside 
the  storm  raged,  a  clean,  frank  passion;  for  nat- 
ure is  a  fair  and  honest  foe.  In  the  little  ofiice 
at  the  back  of  John  WuU's  shop  the  withered 
body  of  the  trader  shook  with  vicious  anger. 
Jehoshaphat's  round,  brown,  simple  face  was 
gloriously  flushed;  his  head  was  thrown  back, 
his  shoulders  were  squared,  his  eyes  were  sure 
and  fearless. 

"'Tis  robbery!"  he  burst  out. 

WuU's  wrath  exploded.  "You  bay-noddy!" 
he  began;  "you  pig  of  a  punt-fisherman;  you 
penniless,  ragged  fool;  you  man  without  a  copper; 
you  sore-handed  idiot !  What  you  whinin'  about .? 
What  right  you  got  t'  yelp  in  my  ofllice  ?'* 

Of  habit  Jehoshaphat  quailed. 
245 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"If  you  don't  want  my  flour,"  roared  Wall, 
fetching  the  counter  a  thwack  with  his  white  fist, 
"leave  it  be!  *Tis  mine,  isn't  it  ?  I  paid  for  it. 
I  got  it.  There's  a  law  in  this  land,  you  pauper, 
that  says  so.  There's  a  law.  Hear  me  ?  There's 
a  law.  Mine,  mine!"  he  cried,  in  a  frenzy,  lifting 
his  lean  arms.  "What  I  got  is  mine.  I'll  eat 
it,"  he  fumed,  "or  I'll  feed  my  pigs  with  it,  or 
I'll  spill  it  for  the  fishes.  They  isn't  no  law  t* 
make  me  sell  t'  you.  An*  you'll  pay  what  I'm 
askin',  or  you'll  starve." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that,  sir,"  Jehoshaphat 
gently  protested.  "Oh  no — no!  Ah,  now,  you 
wouldn't  do  that.  You  wouldn't  throw  it  t'  the 
fishes,  would  you  ?  Not  flour!  'Twould  be  a 
sinful  waste." 

"'Tis  my  right." 

"Ay,'  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  argued,  with 
a  little  smile,  "'tis  yours,  I'll  admit;  but  we  been 
sort  o'  dependin'  on  you  t'  lay  in  enough  t'  get 
us  through  the  winter." 

WuU's  response  was  instant  and  angry.  "Get 
you  out  o'  my  shop,"  said  he,  "an'  come  back 
with  a  civil  tongue!" 

"I'll  go.  Mister  Wull,"  said  Jehoshaphat, 
quietly,  picking  at  a  thread  in  his  faded  cap. 
"I'll  go.     Ay,  I'll  go.     But— I  got  t'  have  the 

246 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

flour.     I — I — just  got  to.     But  I  won't  pay,"  he 
concluded,  "no  eighteen  dollars  a  barrel." 
The  trader  laughed. 

"For,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  "*tisn*t  right." 
Jehoshaphat    went    home    without   the    flour, 
complaining  of  the  injustice. 

Jehoshaphat  Rudd  would  have  no  laughter  in 
the  house,  no  weeping,  no  questions,  no  noise  of 
play.  For  two  days  he  sat  brooding  by  the 
kitchen  fire.  His  past  of  toil  and  unfailing  rec- 
ompense, the  tranquil  routine  of  life,  was 
strangely  like  a  dream,  far  off^,  half  forgot.  As  a 
reality  it  had  vanished.  Hitherto  there  had  been 
no  future;  there  was  now  no  past,  no  ground  for 
expectation.  He  must,  at  least,  take  time  to 
think,  have  courage  to  judge,  the  will  to  retaliate. 
It  was  more  important,  more  needful,  to  sit  in 
thought,  with  idle  hands,  than  to  mend  the  rent 
in  his  herring  seine.  He  was  mystified  and  deeply 
troubled. 

Sometimes  by  day  Jehoshaphat  strode  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  over  the  harbor  ice  to 
the  point  of  shore  where  stood  the  storehouse  and 
shop  and  red  dwelling  of  old  John  WuU.  By 
night  he  drew  close  to  the  fire,  and  there  sat 
with  his  face  in  his  hands;  nor  would  he  go 
17  247 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

to  bed,    nor   would    he    speak,    nor   would    he 
move. 

In  the  night  of  the  third  day  the  children  awoke 
and  cried  for  food.  Jehoshaphat  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  stood  shaking,  with  breath  suspend- 
ed, hands  clinched,  eyes  wide.  He  heard  their 
mother  rise  and  go  crooning  from  cot  to  cot. 
Presently  the  noise  was  hushed:  sobs  turned  to 
whimpers,  and  whimpers  to  plaintive  whispers, 
and  these  complaints  to  silence.  The  house  was 
still;  but  Jehoshaphat  seemed  all  the  while  to  hear 
the  children  crying  in  the  little  rooms  above. 
He  began  to  pace  the  floor,  back  and  forth,  back 
and  forth,  now  slow,  now  in  a  fury,  now  with  list- 
less tread.  And  because  his  children  had  cried 
for  food  in  the  night  the  heart  of  Jehoshaphat 
Rudd  was  changed.  From  the  passion  of  those 
hours,  at  dawn,  he  emerged  serene,  and  went  to 
bed. 

At  noon  of  that  day  Jehoshaphat  Rudd  was 
in  the  little  office  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  John 
Wull  was  alone,  perched  on  a  high  stool  at  the 
desk,  a  pen  in  hand,  a  huge  book  open  before 
him. 

"Fm  come,  sir,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  "for  the 
barrel  o'  flour." 

248 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

The  trader  gave  him  no  attention. 

"I'm  come,  sir/*  Jehoshaphat  repeated,  his 
voice  rising  a  little,  "for  the  flour." 

The  trader  dipped  his  pen  in  ink. 

"I  says,  sir,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  laying  a  hand 
with  sorne  passion  upon  the  counter,  "that  I'm 
come  for  that  there  barrel  o'  flour." 

"An'  I  s'pose,"  the  trader  softly  inquired, 
eying  the  page  of  his  ledger  more  closely,  "that 
you  thinks  you'll  get  it,  eh  ?" 

"Ay,  sir." 

Wull  dipped  his  pen  and  scratched  away. 

"Mister  Wulir 

The  trader  turned  a  leaf, 

"Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  cried,  angrily,  "I 
wants  flour.     Is  you  gone  deaf  overnight  ?" 

Impertinent  question  and  tone  of  voice  made 
old  John  Wull  wheel  on  the  stool.  In  the  forty 
years  he  had  traded  at  Satan's  Trap  he  had  never 
before  met  with  impertinence  that  was  not 
timidly  offered.  He  bent  a  ^cowling  face  upon 
Jehoshaphat.  "An*  you  thinks,"  said  he,  "that 
you'll  get  it?" 

"I  does." 

"Oh,  you  does,  does  you  ?" 

Jehoshaphat  nodded. 

"It  all  depends,"  said  Wull,  "You're  won- 
249 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

derful  deep  in  debt,  Jehoshaphat."  The  trader 
had  now  command  of  himself.  "I  been  lookin' 
up  your  account,"  he  went  on,  softly.  "You're  so 
wonderful  far  behind,  Jehoshaphat,  on  account 
o'  high  livin'  an'  Christmas  presents,  that  I  been 
thinkin'  I  might  do  the  business  a  injury  by  givin' 
you  more  credit.  I  can't  think  o'  myself y  Jehosh- 
aphat, in  this  matter.  'Tis  a  business  matter; 
an'  I  got  t'  think  o'  the  business.  You  sees, 
Jehoshaphat,  eighteen  dollars  more  credit — " 

"Eight,"  Jehoshaphat  corrected. 

"Eighteen,"  the  trader  insisted. 

Jehoshaphat  said  nothing,  nor  did  his  face  ex- 
press feeling.  He  was  looking  stolidly  at  the 
big  key  of  the  storehouse. 

"The  flour  depends,"  Wull  proceeded,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause,  through  which  he  had  regard- 
ed the  gigantic  Jehoshaphat  with  startled  curios- 
ity, "on  what  I  thinks  the  business  will  stand  in 
the  way  o'  givin'  more  credit  t'  you." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Jehoshaphat. 

Wull  put  down  his  pen,  slipped  from  the  high 
stool,  and  came  close  to  Jehoshaphat.  He  was 
mechanical  and  slow  in  these  movements,  as 
though  all  at  once  perplexed,  given  some  new 
view,  which  disclosed  many  and  strange  possibili- 
ties.    For  a  moment  he  leaned  against  the  coun- 

250 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

ter,  legs  crossed,  staring  at  the  floor,  with  his 
long,  scrawny  right  hand  smoothing  his  cheek 
and  chin.  It  was  quiet  in  the  office,  and  warm, 
and  well-disposed,  and  sunlight  came  in  at  the 
window. 

Soon  the  trader  stirred,  as  though  awakening. 
"You  was  sayin'  eight,  wasn't  you?"  he  asked, 
without  looking  up. 

"Eight,  sir." 

The  trader  pondered  this.  "An*  how,"  he 
inquired,  at  last,  "was  you  makin'  that  out  ?" 

"'Tis  a  fair  price." 

Wull  smoothed  his  cheek  and  chin.  "Ah!" 
he  murmured.  He  mused,  staring  at  the  floor, 
his  restless  fingers  beating  a  tattoo  on  his  teeth. 
He  had  turned  woe-begone  and  very  pale.  "  Je- 
hoshaphat,"  he  asked,  turning  upon  the  man, 
"would  you  mind  tellin'  me  just  how  you're 
'lowin*  t'  get  my  flour  against  my  will  ?" 

Jehoshaphat  looked  away. 

"I'd  Hke  t'  know,"  said  Wull,  "if  you  wouldn't 
mind  tellin'  me." 

"No,"  Jehoshaphat  answered.  "No,  Mister 
Wull — I  wouldn't  mind  tellin'." 

"Then,"  Wull  demanded,  "how?" 

"Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  explained,  "I'm 
a  bigger  man  than  you." 

251 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  office.  The  wind  had 
gone  down  in  the  night,  the  wood  in  the  stove  was 
burned  to  glowing  coals.  It  was  very,  very 
still  in  old  John  Wull's  office  at  the  back  of  the 
shop,  and  old  John  WuU  turned  away,  and  went 
absently  to  the  desk,  where  he  fingered  the 
leaves  of  his  ledger,  and  dipped  his  pen  in  ink, 
but  did  not  write.  There  was  a  broad  window 
over  the  desk,  looking  out  upon  the  harbor; 
through  this,  blankly,  he  watched  the  children  at 
play  on  the  ice,  but  did  not  see  them.  By-and- 
by,  when  he  had  closed  the  book  and  put  the 
desk  in  order,  he  came  back  to  the  counter,  leaned 
against  it,  crossed  his  legs*  began  to  smooth  his 
chin,  while  he  mused,  staring  at  the  square  of  sun- 
light on  the  floor.  Jehoshaphat  could  not  look 
at  him.  The  old  man's  face  was  so  gray  and 
drawn,  so  empty  of  pride  and  power,  his  hand 
so  thin  aftd  unsteady,  his  eyes  so  dull,  so  deep 
in  troubled  shadows,  that  Jehoshaphat's  heart 
ached.  He  wished  that  the  world  had  gone  on 
in  peace,  that  the  evil  practices  of  the  great  were 
still  hid  from  his  knowledge,  that  there  had  been 
no  vision,  no  call  to  revolution;  he  rebelled  against 
the  obligation  upon  him,  though  it  had  come  to 
him  as  a  thing  that  was  holy.  He  regretted  his 
power,  had  shame,  indeed,  because  of  the  ease 

252 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

with  which  the  mighty  could  be  put  down.  He 
felt  that  he  must  be  generous,  tender,  that  he 
must  not  misuse  his  strength. 

The  patch  of  yellow  light  had  perceptibly 
moved  before  the  trader  spoke.  "  Jehoshaphat," 
he  asked,  *'you  know  much  about  law?" 

"Well,  no.  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  an- 
swered, with  simple  candor;  "not  too  much." 

"The  law  will  put  you  in  jail  for  this." 

Constables  and  jails  were  like  superstitious 
terrors  to  Jehoshaphat.  He  had  never  set  eyes 
on  the  brass  buttons  and  stone  walls  of  the  law. 

"Oh  no — no!"  he  protested.  "He  wouldn't! 
Not  in  jail!" 

"The  law,"  Wull  warned,  with  grim  delight, 
"will  put  you  in  jail." 

"  He  couldn't!"  Jehoshaphat  complained.  "  As  I 
takes  it,  the  law  sees  fair  play  atween  men.  That's 
what  he  was  made  for.  I  'low  he  ought  t'  put  you 
in  jail  for  raisin'  the  price  o'  flour  t'  eighteen;  but 
not  me — ^not  for  what  I'm  bound  t'  do,  Mister 
Wull,  law  or  no  law,  as  God  lives!  'Twouldn't 
be  right,  sir,  if  he  put  me  in  jail  for  that." 

"The  law  will." 

"But,"  Jehoshaphat  still  persisted,  doggedly, 
"'twouldn't  be  right!" 

The  trader  fell  into  a  muse. 
253 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"I'm  come,"  Jehoshaphat  reminded  him,  "for 
the  flour." 

"You  can't  have  it." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Jehoshaphat  sighed.  "My,  my! 
Pshaw!     I  'low,  then,  us  '11  just  have  t'  take  it." 

Jehoshaphat  went  to  the  door  of  the  shop. 
It  was  cold  and  gloomy  in  the  shop.  He  opened 
the  door.  The  public  of  Satan's  Trap,  in  the 
persons  often  men  of  the  place,  fathers  of  families 
(with  the  exception  of  Timothy  Yule,  who  had 
qualified  upon  his  expectations),  trooped  over  the 
greasy  floor,  their  breath  cloudy  in  the  frosty  air, 
and  crowded  into  the  little  office,  in  the  wake  of 
Jehoshaphat  Rudd.  They  had  the  gravity  of 
mien,  the  set  faces,  the  compassionate  eyes,  the 
merciless  purpose,  of  a  jury.  The  shuffling  sub- 
sided. It  was  once  more  quiet  in  the  little  office. 
Timothy  Yule's  hatred  got  the  better  of  his  sense 
of  propriety:  he  laughed,  but  the  laugh  expired 
suddenly,  for  Jehoshaphat  Rudd's  hand  fell  with 
unmistakable  meaning  upon  his  shoulder. 

John  Wull  faced  them. 

"I  'low.  Mister  Wull,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  dif- 
fidently, "that  we  wants  the  storehouse  key." 

The  trader  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"The  key,"  Jehoshaphat  objected;  "we  wants 
that  there  key." 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

"By  the  Almighty!"  old  John  Wull  snarled, 
"you'll  all  go  t'  jail  for  this,  if  they's  a  law  in 
Newfoundland." 

The  threat  was  ignored. 

"Don't  hurt  un,  lads,"  Jehoshaphat  cautioned; 
"for  he's  so  wonderful  tender.  He've  not  been 
bred  the  way  we  was.  He's  wonderful  old  an' 
lean  an'  brittle,"  he  added,  gently;  "so  I  'low 
we'd  best  be  careful." 

John  WuU's  resistance  was  merely  technical. 

"Now,  Mister  Wull,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  when 
the  big  key  was  in  his  hand  and  the  body  of  the 
trader  had  been  tenderly  deposited  in  his  chair 
by  the  stove,  "don't  you  go  an'  fret.  We  isn't 
the  thieves  that  break  in  an'  steal  nor  the  moths 
that  go  an'  corrupt.  We  isn't  robbers,  an'  we 
isn't  mean  men.  We're  the  public,"  he  explain- 
ed, impressively,  "o'  Satan's  Trap.  We  got 
together.  Mister  Wull,"  he  continued,  feeling 
some  delight  in  the  oratory  which  had  been  thrust 
upon  him,  "an'  we  'lowed  that  flour  was  worth 
about  eight;  but  we'll  pay  nine,  for  we  got  thinkin' 
that  if  flour  goes  up  an'  down,  accordin'  t*  the 
will  o'  God,  it  ought  t'  go  up  now,  if  ever,  the 
will  o'  God  bein'  a  mystery,  anyhow.  We  don't 
want  you  t'  close  up  the  shop  an'  go  away,  after 
this,  Mister  Wull;  for  we  got  t'  have  you,  or  some 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

one  like  you,  t*  do  what  you  been  doin',  so  as  we 
can  have  minds  free  o'  care  for  the  fishin'.  If 
they  was  anybody  at  Satan's  Trap  that  could  read 
an'  write  hke  you,  an'  knowed  about  money  an' 
prices — if  they  was  anybody  like  that  at  Satan's 
Trap,  willin'  t'  do  woman's  work,  which  I  doubts, 
we  wouldn't  care  whether  you  went  or  stayed; 
but  they  isn't,  an'  we  can't  do  'ithout  you.  So 
don't  you  fret,"  Jehoshaphat  concluded.  "You 
set  right  there  by  the  fire  in  this  little  office  o' 
yours.  Tom  Lower  '11  put  more  billets  on  the 
fire  for  you,  an'  you'll  be  wonderful  comfortable 
till  we  gets  through.  I'll  see  that  account  is 
kep'  by  Tim  Yule  of  all  we  takes.  You  can  put 
it  on  the  books  just  when  you  likes.  No  hurry, 
Mister  Wull  —  no  hurry.  The  prices  will  be 
them  that  held  in  the  fall  o'  the  year,  'cept  flour, 
which  is  gone  up  t'  nine  by  the  barrel.  An',  ah, 
now,  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  pleaded,  "don't 
you  have  no  hard  feehn'.  'Twouldn't  be  right. 
We're  the  public;  so  please  don't  you  go  an'  have 
no  hard  feelin'." 

The  trader  would  say  nothing. 
"Now,  lads,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  "us  '11  go." 
In  the   storehouse  there  were  two  interrup- 
tions to  the  transaction  of  business  in  an  orderly 
fashion.    Tqvc\  Lower,  who  was  a  lazy  fellow  and 
256 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

wasteful,  as  Jehoshaphat  knew,  demanded  thirty 
pounds  of  pork,  and  Jehoshaphat  knocked  him 
down.  Timothy  Yule,  the  anarchist,  proposed 
to  sack  the  place,  and  him  Jehoshaphat  knocked 
down  twice.     There  was  no  further  difficulty. 

"Now,  Mister  Wull,'*  said  Jehoshaphat,  as  he 
laid  the  key  and  the  account  on  the  trader's 
desk,  "the  public  o'  Satan's  Trap  is  wonderful 
sorry;  but  the  thing  had  t'  be  done." 

The  trader  would  not  look  up. 

"  It  makes  such  a  wonderful  fuss  in  the  world,*' 
Jehoshaphat  complained,  "that  the  crew  hadn't 
no  love  for  the  job.  But  it — it — it  jus'  had  t'  be 
done." 

Old  John  WuU  scowled. 

For  a  long  time,  if  days  may  be  long,  Jehosh- 
aphat Rudd  Hved  in  the  fear  of  constables  and 
jails,  which  were  the  law,  to  be  commanded  by 
the  wealth  of  old  John  Wull;  and  for  the  self-same 
period — the  days  being  longer  because  of  the 
impatience  of  hate — old  John  Wull  lived  in  ex- 
pectation of  his  revenge.  Jehoshaphat  Rudd 
lowed  he'd  stand  by,  anyhow,  an'  go  t*  jail,  if 
'twas  needful  t*  maintain  the  rights  o'  man.  Ay, 
he^d  go  t'  jail,  an'  be  whipped  an'  starved,  as  the 
imagination  promised,   but  he'd  be  jiggered  if 

257 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

he'd  '"pologize."  Old  John  Wull  kept  grim 
watch  upon  the  winds;  for  upon  the  way  the  wind 
blew  depended  the  movement  of  the  ice,  and  the 
clearing  of  the  sea,  and  the  first  voyage  of  the 
mail-boat.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  been  robbed; 
so  glad  that  he  rubbed  his  lean,  transparent 
hands  until  the  flush  of  life  appeared  to  surprise 
him;  so  glad  that  he  chuckled  until  his  house- 
keeper feared  his  false  teeth  would  by  some 
dreadful  mischance  vanish  within  him.  Jail  ?  ay, 
he*d  put  Jehoshaphat  Rudd  in  jail;  but  he  would 
forgive  the  others,  that  they  might  continue  to 
fish  and  to  consume  food.  In  jail,  ecod!  t*  be 
fed  on  bread  an*  water,  t*  be  locked  up,  t*  wear 
stripes,  t*  make  brooms,  t*  lie  there  so  long  that 
the  last  little  Rudd  would  find  its  own  father 
a  stranger  when  'twas  all  over  with.  'Twould 
be  fair  warning  t*  the  malcontent  o'  the  folk; 
they  would  bide  quiet  hereafter.  All  the  people 
would  toil  and  trade;  they  would  complain  no 
more.  John  Wull  was  glad  that  the  imprudence 
of  Jehoshaphat  Rudd  had  provided  him  with 
power  to  restore  the  ancient  peace  to  Satan's 
Trap. 

One  day  in  the  spring,  when  the  bergs  and 
great  floes  of  the  open  had  been  blown  to  sea, 

258 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

and  the  snow  was  gone  from  the  slopes  of  the 
hills,  and  the  sun  was  out,  and  the  earth  was 
warm  and  yellow  and  merrily  dripping,  old  John 
Wull  attempted  a  passage  of  the  harbor  by  the 
ice,  which  there  had  lingered,  confined.  It  was 
only  to  cross  the  narrows  from  Haul-Away  Head 
to  Daddy  Tool's  Point,  no  more  than  a  stone's 
throw  for  a  stout  lad.  The  ice  had  been  broken 
into  pans  by  a  stiff  breeze  from  the  west,  and  was 
then  moving  with  the  wind,  close-packed,  bound 
out  to  sea,  there  to  be  dispersed  and  dissolved. 
It  ran  sluggishly  through  the  narrows,  scraping 
the  rocks  of  the  head  and  of  the  point;  the  heave 
of  the  sea  slipped  underneath  and  billowed  the 
way,  and  the  outermost  pans  of  ice  broke  from 
the  press  and  went  off  with  the  waves.  But  the 
feet  of  old  John  Wull  were  practised;  he  essayed 
the  crossing  without  concern — indeed,  with  an 
absent  mind.  Presently  he  stopped  to  rest;  and 
he  stared  out  to  sea,  musing;  and  when  again  he 
looked  about,  the  sea  had  softly  torn  the  pan 
from  the  pack. 

Old  John  Wull  was  adrift,  and  bound  out. 

"Ahoy,  you,  Jehoshaphat!"  he  shouted.    " Je- 
hoshaphat!     Oh,  Jehoshaphat!" 

Jehoshaphat  came  to  the  door  of  his  cottage 
on  Daddy  Tool's  Point. 

259 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"Launch  that  rodney,"^  Wull  directed,  "an' 
put  me  on  shore.  An*  lively,  man,"  he  com» 
plained.     "I'll  be  cotchin'  cold  out  here." 

With  the  help  of  Timothy  Yule,  who  chanced 
to  be  gossiping  in  the  kitchen,  Jehoshaphat  Rudd 
got  the  rodney  in  the  open  water  by  the  stage- 
head-  What  with  paddling  and  much  hearty 
hauling  and  pushing,  they  had  the  little  craft 
across  the  barrier  of  ice  in  the  narrows  before 
the  wind  had  blown  old  John  Wull  a  generous 
rod  out  to  sea. 

"Timothy,  lad,"  Jehoshaphat  whispered,  "I 
'low  you  better  stay  here." 

Timothy  kept  to  the  ice. 

"You  been  wonderful  slow,"  growled  Wull. 
**Come  'round  t'  the  lee  side,  you  dunderhead! 
Think  I  wants  t'  get  my  feet  wet .'"' 

"No,  sir,"  Jehoshaphat  protested.  "Oh  no; 
I  wouldn't  have  you  do  that  an  I  could  help 
it." 

The  harbor  folk  were  congregating  on  Haul- 
Away  Head  and  Daddy  Tool's  Point.  'Twas 
an  agreeable  excitement  to  see  John  Wull  in  a 
mess — in  a  ludicrous  predicament,  which  made 
him  helpless  before  their  eyes.     They  whispered, 

'  A  rodney  is  a  small,  light  boat,  used  for  getting  about 
among  the  ice  packs,  chiefly  in  seal-hunting. 

260 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

they  smiled  behind  their  hands,  they  chuckled 
inwardly. 

Jehoshaphat  pulled  to  the  lee  side  of  the  pan. 

"Come  'longside,"  said  Wull. 

Jehoshaphat  dawdled. 

"Come  'longside,  you  fool!"  Wull  roared. 
"Think  I  can  leap  three  fathom  ?" 

"No,  sir;  oh  no;  no,  indeed." 

"Then  come  'longside." 

Jehoshaphat  sighed. 

"Come  in  here,  you  crazy  pauper!"  Wull 
screamed,  stamping  his  rage.  "Come  in  here 
an'  put  me  ashore!" 

"Mister  Wull!" 

Wull  eyed  the  man  in  amazement. 

"Labor,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  gently,  "is  gone 
up." 

Timothy  Yule  laughed,  but  on  Haul-Away 
Head  and  Daddy  Tool's  Point  the  folk  kept 
silent;  nor  did  old  John  Wull,  on  the  departing 
pan,  utter  a  sound. 

"Sky  high,"  Jehoshaphat  concluded. 

The  sun  was  broadly,  warmly  shining,  the  sky 
was  blue;  but  the  wind  was  rising  smartly,  and 
far  off  over  the  hills  of  Satan's  Trap,  beyond  the 
wilderness  that  was  known,  it  was  turning  gray 
and  tumultuous.     Old  John  Wull  scowled,  wheel- 

261 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

ed,  and  looked  away  to  sea;  he  did  not  see  the 
ominous  color  and  writhing  in  the  west. 

"We  don't  want  no  law,  Mister  Wull,"  Jehosh- 
aphat  continued,  "at  Satan's  Trap." 

Wull  would  not  attend. 

"Not  law,"  Jehoshaphat  repeated;  "for  we 
knows  well  enough  at  Satan's  Trap,"  said  he, 
"what's  fair  as  atween  men.  You  jus'  leave  the 
law  stay  t'  St.  John's,  sir,  where  he's  t'  home. 
He  isn't  fair,  by  no  means;  an'  we  don't  want  un 
here  t'  make  trouble." 

The  trader's  back  was  still  turned. 

"An',  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  entreated, 
his  face  falling  like  a  child's,  "don't  you  have  no 
hard  feelin'  over  this.  Ah,  now,  Jont!'*  he 
pleaded.  "You  won't,  will  you?  For  we  isn't 
got  no  hate  for  you.  Mister  Wull,  an'  we  isn't 
got  no  greed  for  ourselves.  We  just  wants  what's 
fair — just  what's  fair."  He  added:  "Just  on'y 
that.  We  likes  t'  see  you  have  your  milk  an' 
butter  an*  fresh  beef  an'  nuts  an'  whiskey,  ff^e 
don't  want  them  things,  for  they  isn't  ours  by 
rights.  All  we  wants  is  just  on'y  fair  play.  We 
don't  want  no  law,  sir:  for,  ecod!"  Jehoshaphat 
declared,  scratching  his  head  in  bewilderment, 
"the  law  looks  after  them  that  has,  so  far  as  I 
knowsy  sir,  an'  don't  know  nothin'  about  them 

262 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

that  hasn't.  An*  we  don't  want  un  here  at  Satan's 
Trap.  We  won't  have  un!  We — we  —  why, 
ecod!  we — ^we  can't  'low  it!  We'd  be  ashamed 
of  ourselves  an  we  'lowed  you  t'  fetch  the  law  t' 
Satan's  Trap  t'  wrong  us.  We're  free  men,  isn't 
we  ?"  he  demanded,  indignantly.  **  Isn't  we  ? 
Ecodt  I  'low  we  is!  You  think,  John  Wull," 
he  continued,  in  wrath,  "  that  you  can  do  what  you 
like  with  we  just  because  you  an'  the  likes  o'  you 
is  gone  an'  got  a  laW?  You  can't!  You  can't! 
An'  you  can't,  just  because  we  won't  'low  it." 

It  was  an  incendiary  speech. 

"No,  you  can't!"  Timothy  Yule  screamed 
from  the  ice,  "you  robber,  you  thief,  you  whale's 
pup!  /'//  tell  you  what  I  thinks  o'  you.  You 
can't  scare  me.  I  wants  that  meadow  you  stole 
from  my  father.     I  wants  that  meadow — " 

"Timothy,"  Jehoshaphat  interrupted,  quietly, 
"you're  a  fool.     Shut  your  mouth!" 

Tom  Lower,  the  lazy,  wasteful  Tom  Lower, 
ran  down  to  the  shore  of  Haul-Away  Head,  and 
stamped  his  feet,  and  shook  his  fist.  "I  wants 
your  cow  an'  your  raisins  an'  your  candy!  We 
got  you  down,  you  robber!  An'  I'll  have  your 
red  house;  I'll  have  your  wool  blankets;  I'll  have 
your — " 

"Tom  Lower,"  Jehoshaphat  roared,  rising  m 
«8  263 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

wrath,  "  I'll  floor  you  for  that!  That  I  will — next 
time  I  cotch  you  out." 

John  Wull  turned  half-way  around  and  grinned. 

"  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  asked,  propitiat- 
ingly,  "won't  you  be  put  ashore?" 

"Not  at  the  price." 

**I  *low,  then,  sir,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  in  some 
impatience,  "that  you  might  as  well  be  com- 
fortable while  you  makes  up  your  mind.  Here!" 
He  cast  a  square  of  tarpaulin  on  the  ice,  and 
chancing  to  discover  Timothy  Yule's  jacket,  he 
added  that.  "There!"  he  grunted,  with  satis- 
faction; "you'll  be  sittin'  soft  an'  dry  while  you 
does  your  thinkin'.  Don't  be  long,  sir — ^not 
overlong.  Please  don't,  sir,"  he  begged;  "for 
it  looks  t'  me — it  looks  wonderful  t'  me — ^like 
a  spurt  o'  weather." 

John  Wull  spread  the  tarpaulin. 

"An'  when  you  gets  through  considerin'  of  the 
question,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  suggestively,  "an' 
is  come  t'  my  way  o'  thinkin',  why  all  you  got  t' 
do  is  lift  your  little  finger,  an'  I'll  put  you  ashore" 
— a  gust  of  wind  whipped  past — "if  I'm  able," 
Jehoshaphat  added. 

Pan  and  boat  drifted  out  from  the  coast,  a 
slow  course,  which  in  an  hour  had  reduced  the 
harbor  folk  to  black  pygmies  on  the  low  rocks  to 

264 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

windward.  Jehoshaphat  paddled  patiently  in  the 
wake  of  the  ice.  Often  he  raised  his  head,  in  ap- 
prehension, to  read  the  signs  in  the  west;  and  he 
sighed  a  deal,  and  sometimes  muttered  to  him- 
self. Old  John  Wull  was  squatted  on  the  tar- 
paulin, with  Timothy  Yule's  jacket  for  a  cushion, 
his  great-coat  wrapped  close  about  him,  his  cap 
pulled  over  his  ears,  his  arms  folded.  The  with- 
ered old  fellow  was  as  lean  and  blue  and  rigid  and 
staring  as  a  frozen  corpse. 

The  wind  had  freshened.  The  look  and  smell 
of  the  world  foreboded  a  gale.  Overhead  the  sky 
turned  gray.  There  came  a  shadow  on  the  sea, 
sullen  and  ominous.  Gusts  of  wind  ran  offshore 
and  went  hissing  out  to  sea;  and  they  left  the 
waters  rippling  black  and  flecked  with  froth 
wherever  they  touched.  In  the  west  the  sky, 
far  away,  changed  from  gray  to  deepest  black 
and  purple;  and  high  up,  midway,  masses  of 
cloud,  with  torn  and  streaming  edges,  rose 
swiftly  toward  the  zenith.  It  turned  cold.  A 
great  flake  of  snow  fell  on  Jehoshaphat's  cheek, 
and  melted;  but  Jehoshaphat  was  pondering 
upon  justice.  He  wiped  the  drop  of  water  away 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  because  it  tickled  him, 
but  gave  the  sign  no  heed. 

**I  'low.  Mister  Wull,"  said  he,  doggedly, 
265 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"that  you  better  give  Timothy  Yule  back  his 
father's  meadow.  For  nobody  knows,  sir,"  he 
argued,  "why  Timothy  Yule's  father  went  an* 
signed  his  name  t'  that  there  writin'  just  afore  he 
died.  'Twasn't  right.  He  didn't  ought  t'  sign 
it.     An*  you  got  t'  give  the  meadow  back." 

John  WuU  was  unmoved. 

"An*,  look  you!  Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat 
continued,  pulling  closer  to  the  pan,  addressing 
the  bowed  back  of  the  trader,  "you  better  not 
press  young  Isaac  Lower  for  that  cod-trap  money. 
He*ve  too  much  trouble  with  that  wife  o'  his  t' 
be  bothered  by  debt.  Anyhow,  you  ought  t' 
give  un  a  chance.  An',  look  you!  you  better  let 
ol*  Misses  Jowl  have  back  her  garden  t'  Green 
Cove.  The  way  you  got  that.  Mister  Wull,  is 
queer.  I  don't  know,  but  I  'low  you  better  give 
it  back,  anyhow.  You  got  to.  Mister  Wull; 
an',  ecod!  you  got  t*  give  the  ol'  woman  a  pound 
o'  cheese  an'  five  cents*  worth  —  no,  ten  —  ten 
cents*  worth  o*  sweets  t'  make  her  feel  good. 
She  likes  cheese.  She  'lows  she  never  could  get 
enough  o'  cheese.  She  'lows  she  wished  she  could 
have  her  fill  afore  she  dies.  An*  you  got  t'  give 
her  a  whole  pound  for  herself." 

They  were  drifting  over  the  Tombstone  grounds. 

"Whenever  you  makes  up  your  mind,"  Je- 
266 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

hoshaphat  suggested,  diffidently,  "you  lift  your 
little  finger — jus'  your  little  finger." 

There  was  no  response. 

"Your  little  finger,"  Jehoshaphat  repeated. 
"Jus*  your  little  finger — on'y  that." 

Wull  faced  about.  "Jehoshaphat,"  said  he, 
with  a  grin,  "you  wouldn't  leave  me.'* 

"Jus*  wouldn't  11" 

"You  wouldn't." 

"You  jus*  wait  and  see." 

"You  wouldn't  leave  me,"  said  Wull,  "be- 
cause you  couldn't.  I  knows  you,  Jehoshaphat 
— I  knows  you." 

"You  better  look  out." 

"Come,  now,  Jehoshaphat,  is  you  goin'  t* 
leave  an  old  man  drift  out  t'  sea  an'  die  ?" 

Jehoshaphat  was  embarrassed. 

"Eh,  Jehoshaphat?" 

"Well,  no,"  Jehoshaphat  admitted,  frankly. 
"I  isn't;  leastways,  not  alone." 

"  Not  alone  ?"  anxiously. 

"No;  not  alone.  I'll  go  with  you.  Mister 
Wull,  if  you're  lonesome,  an'  wants  company. 
You  sees,  sir,  I  can't  give  in.  I  jus'  cant!  I'm 
here.  Mister  Wull,  in  this  here  cranky  rodney, 
beyond  the  Tombstone  grounds,  with  a  dirty 
gale  from  a  point  or  two  south  o'  west  about  t* 

267 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

break,  because  rm  the  public  o'  Satan's  Trap. 
I  can  die,  sir,  t*  save  gossip;  but  I  sim-plee  jus' 
isn't  able  t'  give  in.     'Twouldn't  be  right.'* 

"Well, /won't  give  in." 

"Nor  I,  sir.  So  here  we  is — out  here  beyond 
the  Tombstone  grounds,  you  on  a  pan  an*  me 
in  a  rodney.  An'  the  weather  isn't — ^well — not 
quite  kind." 

It  was  not.  The  black  clouds,  torn,  stream- 
ing, had  possessed  the  sky,  and  the  night  was 
near  come.  Haul-Away  Head  and  Daddy  Tool's 
Point  had  melted  with  the  black  line  of  coast. 
Return — safe  passage  through  the  narrows  to  the 
quiet  water  and  warm  lights  of  Satan's  Trap- 
was  almost  beyond  the  most  courageous  hope. 
The  wind  broke  from  the  shore  in  straight  lines 
— a  stout,  agile  wind,  loosed  for  riot  upon  the  sea. 
The  sea  was  black,  with  a  wind-lop  upon  the 
grave  swell — a  black-and-white  sea,  with  spume 
in  the  gray  air.  The  west  was  black,  with  no 
hint  of  other  color — ^without  the  pity  of  purple  or 
red.  Roundabout  the  sea  was  breaking,  troubled 
by  the  wind,  indifferent  to  the  white  little  rodney 
and  the  lives  o'  men. 

"You  better  give  in,"  old  John  Wull  warned. 

"No,"  Jehoshaphat  answered;  "no;  oh  no! 
I  won't  give  in.     Not  inJ" 

268 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

A  gust  turned  the  black  sea  white. 

*'Tou  better  give  in,'*  said  Jehoshaphat. 

John  Wull  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
his  back. 

"Now,  Mister  Wull,"  said  Jehoshaphat,  firm- 
ly, "I  'low  I  can't  stand  this  much  longer.  I 
'low  we  can't  be  fools  much  longer  an'  get  back 
t'  Satan's  Trap.  I  got  a  sail,  here.  Mister  Wull; 
but,  ecod!  the  beat  t'  harbor  isn't  pleasant  t' 
think  about." 

"You  better  go  home,"  sneered  old  John 
Wull. 

"I  'low  I  willy"  Jehoshaphat  declared. 

Old  John  Wull  came  to  the  windward  edge  of 
the  ice,  and  there  stood  frowning,  with  his  feet 
submerged.  "What  was  you  sayin'  ?"  he  asked. 
"That  you'd  go  home?" 

Jehoshaphat  looked  away. 

"An'  leave  me?"  demanded  John  Wull. 
"  Leave  m^.?    Me  T 

"  I  got  t'  think  o'  my  kids." 

"An'  you'd  leave  me  t'  die  f" 

"Well,"  Jehoshaphat  complained,  "'tis  long 
past  supper-time.     You  better  give  in." 

"I  won't!" 

The  coast  was  hard  to  distinguish  from  the 
black  sky  in  the  west.     It  began  to  snow.     Snow 

269 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

and  night,  allied,  would  bring  Jehoshaphat  Rudd 
and  old  John  Wull  to  cold  death. 

"Mister  Wull,"  Jehoshaphat  objected,  "'tis 
long  past  supper-time,  an'  I  wants  t'  go  home." 

"Go — an'  be  damned!" 

"I'll  count  ten,"  Jehoshaphat  threatened. 

"You  dassn't!" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'll  go  or  not,"  said 
Jehoshaphat.  "Maybe  not.  Anyhow,  I'll  count 
ten,  an'  see  what  happens.     Is  you  ready  ?" 

Wull  sat  down  on  the  tarpaulin. 

"One,"  Jehoshaphat  began. 

John  Wull  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"Two,"  said  Jehoshaphat.  "Three — ^four — 
five — six — seven." 

John  Wull  did  not  turn. 

"Eight." 

There  was  no  sign  of  relenting. 

"Nine." 

Jehoshaphat  paused.  "God's  mercy!"  he 
groaned,  "  don't  you  be  a  fool.  Mister  Wull,"  he 
pleaded.  "Doesn't  you  Anowwhat  the  weather  is  ?" 

A  wave — the  lop  raised  by  the  wind — broke 
over  the  pan.  John  Wull  stood  up.  There 
came  a  shower  of  snow. 

"  Eh  ?"  Jehoshaphat  demanded,  in  agony. 

"I  won't  give  in,"  said  old  John  Wull. 
?7o 


THE  REVOLUTION  AT  SATAN'S  TRAP 

"Then  I  got  t'  say  ten.     I  jus'  got  to." 

"I  dare  you." 

"I  will.  Mister  Wull.  Honest,  I  will!  I'll 
say  ten  an  you  don't  look  out." 

"Why  don't  you  ^0  it.?" 

"In  a  minute.  Mister  Wull.  I'll  say  it  just 
so  soon  as  I  get  up  the  sail.  I  will,  Mister  Wull, 
honest  t'  God!" 

The  coast  had  vanished. 

"Look,"  cried  Jehoshaphat,  "we're  doomed 
men!" 

The  squall,  then  first  observed,  sent  the  sea 
curling  over  the  ice.  Jehoshaphat's  rodney 
shipped  the  water  it  raised.  Snow  came  in  a 
blinding  cloud. 

"Say  ten,  you  fool!"  screamed  old  John  Wull. 

"Ten!" 

John  Wull  came  to  the  edge  of  the  pan. 
*Twas  hard  for  the  old  man  to  breast  the  gust. 
He  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  that  he  might 
be  heard  in  the  wind. 

"  I  give  in !"  he  shouted. 

Jehoshaphat  managed  to  save  the  lives  of  both. 

Old  John  Wull,  with  his  lean  feet  in  a  tub  of 
hot  water,  with  a  gray  blanket  over  his  shoulders, 
with  a  fire  sputtering  in  the  stove,  with  his  house- 

271 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

keeper  hovering  near — old  John  Wull  chuckled. 
The  room  was  warm  and  his  stomach  was  full, 
and  the  wind,  blowing  horribly  in  the  night,  could 
work  him  no  harm.  There  he  sat,  sipping  herb 
tea  to  please  his  housekeeper,  drinking  whiskey 
to  please  himself.  He  had  no  chill,  no  fever, 
no  pain;  perceived  no  warning  of  illness.  So  he 
chuckled  away.  It  was  all  for  the  best.  There 
would  now  surely  be  peace  at  Satan's  Trap.  Had 
he  not  yielded  .''  What  more  could  they  ask  .? 
They  would  be  content  with  this  victory.  For  a 
long,  long  time  they  would  not  complain.  He 
had  yielded;  very  well:  Timothy  Yule  should 
have  his  father's  meadow.  Dame  Jowl  her  garden 
and  sweets  and  cheese,  the  young  Lower  be  left 
in  possession  of  the  cod-trap,  and  there  would 
be  no  law.  Very  well;  the  folk  would  neither 
pry  nor  complain  for  a  long,  long  time:  that  was 
triumph  enough  for  John  Wull.  So  he  chuckled 
away,  with  his  feet  in  hot  water,  and  a  gray 
blanket  about  him,  bald  and  withered  and 
ghastly,  but  still  feeling  the  comfort  of  fire  and 
hot  water  and  whiskey,  the  pride  of  power. 

And  within  three  years  John  Wull  possessed 
again  all  that  he  had  yielded,  and  the  world  of 
Satan's  Trap  wagged  on  as  in  the  days  before 
the  revolution. 

272 


X 

THE    SURPLUS 

TO  the  east  was  the  illimitable  ocean,  laid 
thick  with  moonlight  and  luminous  mist; 
to  the  west,  beyond  a  stretch  of  black,  slow  heav- 
ing water,  was  the  low  line  of  Newfoundland,  an 
illusion  of  kindliness,  the  malignant  character  of 
its  jagged  rock  and  barren  interior  transformed  by 
the  gentle  magic  of  the  night.  Tumm,  the  clerk, 
had  the  wheel  of  the  schooner,  and  had  been 
staring  in  a  rapture  at  the  stars. 

"Jus*  readin',  sir,"  he  explained. 

I  wondered  what  he  read. 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  turning  again  to  con- 
template the  starlit  sky,  "jus'  a  little  psa*m  from 
my  Bible." 

I  left  him  to  read  on,  myself  engaged  with  a 
perusal  of  the  serene  and  comforting  text-book 
of  philosophy  spread  overhead.  The  night  was 
favorably  inclined  and  radiant:  a  soft  southerly 

273 


EVERY   MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

wind  blowing  without  menace,  a  sky  of  infinite 
depth  and  tender  shadow,  the  sea  asleep  under 
the  moon.  With  a  gentle,  aimlessly  wandering 
wind  astern  —  an  idle,  dawdling,  contemptuous 
breeze,  following  the  old  craft  lazily,  now  and 
again  whipping  her  nose  under  water  to  remind 
her  of  suspended  strength  —  the  trader  Good 
Samaritan  ran  on,  wing  and  wing,  through  the 
moonlight,  bound  across  from  Sinners'  Tickle  to 
Afterward  Bight,  there  to  deal  for  the  first  of  the 
catch. 

"Them  little  stars  jus'  will  wink!"  Tumm 
complained. 

I  saw  them  wink  in  despite. 

"Ecod!"  Tumm  growled. 

The  amusement  of  the  stars  was  not  by  this 
altered  to  a  more  serious  regard :  everywhere  they 
winked. 

"I've  seed  un  peep  through  a  gale  o'  wind,  a 
slit  in  the  black  sky,  a  cruel,  cold  time,"  Tumm 
continued,  a  pretence  of  indignation  in  his  voice, 
"when  'twas  a  mean  hard  matter  t'  keep  a  schoon- 
er afloat  in  a  dirty  sea,  with  all  hands  wore  out 
along  o'  labor  an'  the  fear  o'  death  an'  hell;  an', 
ecod!  them  httle  cusses  was  winkin*  still.  Eh? 
What  d'ye  make  o'  that  ?  —  winkin'  still,  the 
heartless  little  cusses!" 

274 


THE   SURPLUS 


There  were  other  crises,  I  recalled — knowing 
little  enough  of  the  labor  of  the  sea — upon  which 
they  winked. 

"Ay,"  Tumm  agreed;  "they  winks  when  lov- 
ers kiss  on  the  roads;  an'  they  winks  jus*  the 
same,"  he  added,  softly,  "when  a  heart  breaks." 

"They're  humorous  Httle  beggars,"  I  observed. 

Tumm  laughed.  "They  been  lookin*  at  this 
here  damned  thing  so  long,"  he  drawled — mean- 
ing, no  doubt,  upon  the  spectacle  of  the  world — 
"that  no  wonder  they  winks!" 

This  prefaced  a  tale. 

"Somehow,"  Tumm  began,  his  voice  fallen 
rather  despondent,  I  fancied,  but  yet  continuing 
most  curiously  genial,  "it  always  made  me  think 
o'  dust  an*  ashes  t'  clap  eyes  on  ol'  Bill  Hulk  o' 
Gingerbread  Cove.  Ay,  b'y;  but  I  could  jus' 
fair  hear  the  parson  singsong  that  mean  truth  o* 
life:  *Dust  t*  dust;  ashes  t'  ashes* — an*  make  the 
best  of  it,  ye  sinners  an*  young  folk !  When  ol' 
Bill  hove  alongside,  poor  man!  I'd  think  no 
more  o'  maids  an'  trade,  o*  which  I'm  fair  sinful 
fond,  but  on'y  o*  coffins  an*  graves  an*  ground. 
For,  look  you!  the  ol*  feller  was  so  white  an' 
wheezy — so  fishy-eyed  an*  crooked  an'  shaky 
along  o*  age.     *Tis  a  queer  thing,  sir,  but,  truth 

275 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

o*  God,  so  old  was  Bill  Hulk  that  when  he'd 
board  me  I'd  remember  somehow  the  warm 
breast  o'  my  mother,  an'  then  think,  an'  couldn't 
help  it,  o'  the  bosom  o'  dust  where  my  head  must 
lie." 

Tumm  paused. 

"Seemed  t'  me,  somehow,"  he  continued, 
"when  the  Quick  as  Wink  was  lyin'  of  a  Sunday 
t'  Gingerbread  Cove — seemed  t'  me  somehow, 
when  I'd  hear  the  church  bell  ring  an'  echo 
across  the  water  an'  far  into  the  hills — ^when  I'd 
cotch  sight  o*  ol'  Bill  Hulk,  with  his  staff  an'  braw 
black  coat,  crawlin'  down  the  hill  t'  meetin' — ay, 
an'  when  the  sun  was  out,  warm  an'  yellow,  an* 
the  maids  an'  lads  was  flirtin'  over  the  roads  t' 
hear  the  parson  thunder  agin  their  hellish  levity 
— seemed  t'  me  then,  somehow,  that  ol'  Bill  was 
all  the  time  jus'  dodgin'  along  among  open 
graves;  for,  look  you!  the  ol'  feller  had  such 
trouble  with  his  legs.  An'  I'd  wish  by  times  that 
he'd  stumble  an'  fall  in,  an*  be  covered  up  in  a 
comfortable  an'  decent  sort  o'  fashion,  an'  stowed 
away  for  good  an'  all  in  the  bed  where  he  be- 
longed. 

"* Uncle  Bill,'  says  I,  *you  at  it  yet?' 

"'Hangin'  on,  Tumm,'  says  he.  *I  isn't  quite 
through.' 

276 


OI.     BILL    HULK    CRAWLIN     DOWN    THE    HILL    T     MEETIN 


THE   SURPLUS 


"'Accordin'  t'  the  signs,'  says  I,  'you  isn't  got 
much  of  a  grip  left/ 

"'Yes,  I  is!'  says  he.  'I  got  all  my  fishin' 
fingers  exceptin'  two,  an'  I  'low  they'll  last  me 
till  I'm  through.' 

"Ecod!  sir,  but  it  made  me  think  so  mean  o* 
the  world  that  I  'lowed  I'd  look  away. 

"'No,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'I  isn't  quite  through.' 

"'Well,'  says  I,  'you  must  be  tired.' 

"'Tired,' says  he.  'Ohno,b'y!  Tired?  Not 
me!  I  got  a  little  spurt  o'  labor  t'  do  afore  / 
goes.' 

"'An'  what's  that.  Uncle  Bill?'  says  I. 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he. 

"' But  what /j  it?' 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he;  'jus'  a  little  spurt 
o'  labor.' 

"The  ol'  feller  lived  all  alone,  under  Seven 
Stars  Head,  in  a  bit  of  a  white  house  with  black 
trimmin's,  jus'  within  the  Tickle,  where  'twas 
nice  an'  warm  an'  still;  an'  he  kep'  his  house  as 
neat  an'  white  as  a  ol'  maid  with  a  gray  tomcat 
an'  a  window-garden  o'  geraniums,  an',  like  all 
the  ol'  maids,  made  the  best  fish  on  fifty  mile  o' 
coast.  'Twas  said  by  the  ol'  folks  o'  Gingerbread 
Cove  that  their  fathers  knowed  the  time  when 
Bill  Hulk  had  a  partner;  but  the  partner  got  lost 

277 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

on  the  Labrador,  an'  then  Bill  Hulk  jus'  held  on 
cotchin'  fish  an'  keepin'  house  all  alone,  till  he 
got  the  habit  an'  couldn't  leave  off.  Was  a  time, 
I'm  told,  a  time  when  he  had  his  strength — ^was  a 
time,  I'm  told,  afore  he  wore  out — ^was  a  time 
when  Bill  Hulk  had  a  bit  o'  money  stowed  away 
in  a  bank  t'  St.  John's.  Always  'lowed,  I'm  told, 
that  'twas  plenty  t'  see  un  through  when  he  got 
past  his  labor.  *I  got  enough  put  by,'  says  he. 
*I  got  more'n  enough.  I'm  jus'  fishin'  along,* 
says  he,  *t'  give  t'  the  poor.  Store  in  your 
youth,'  says  he,  *an'  you'll  not  want  in  your  age.* 
But  somehow  some  o'  them  St.  John's  gentlemen 
managed  t'  discover  expensive  ways  o'  delightin* 
theirselves;  an'  what  with  bank  failures  an'  lean 
seasons  an'  lumbago,  ol'  Bill  was  fallen  poor 
when  first  I  traded  Gingerbread  Cove.  About 
nine  year  after  that,  bein'  then  used  t'  the  trade  o* 
that  shore,  I  'lowed  that  Bill  had  better  knock 
off  an'  lie  in  the  sun  till  'twas  time  for  un  t'  go  t' 
his  last  berth.  *'Twon't  be  long,'  thinks  I,  *an* 
I  'low  my  owners  can  stand  it.  Anyhow,'  thinks 
I,  *'tis  high  time  the  world  done  something  for 
Bill.* 

"But— 

***Tumm,*  says  he,  *how  many  books  is  kep' 
by  traders  in  Newf'un'land  ?' 

278 


THE   SURPLUS 


"  I  'lowed  I  didn't  know. 

"'Call  it  a  round  million,'  says  he. 

"'What  of  it?'  says  I. 

"*Nothin'  much,'  says  he. 

"*But  what  of  it  ?'  says  I. 

" '  Well,'  says  he,  *  if  you  was  t'  look  them  mill- 
ion books  over,  goin'  as  easy  as  you  please  an* 
markin'  off  every  line  o'  every  page  with  your 
forefinger,  what  d'ye  think  would  come  t'  pass  ?' 

"I 'lowed  I  couldn't  tell. 

"'Eh?'  says  he.     'Come,  now!  give  a  guess.* 

"'I  don't  know,  Bill,'  says  I. 

'"Why,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'you  wouldn't  find 
a  copper  agin  the  name  o'  ol'  Bill  Hulk!' 

'"That's  good  livin','  says  I. 

"'Not  a  copper!'  says  he.  'No,  sir;  not  if 
you  looked  with  spectacles.  An'  so,'  says  he,  'I 
'low  ril  jus'  keep  on  payin'  my  passage  for  the 
little  time  that's  left.  If  my  back  on'y  holds 
out,'  says  he,  'I'll  manage  it  till  I'm  through. 
'Twon't  be  any  more  than  twenty  year.  Jus'  a 
little  spurt  o'  labor  t'  do,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'afore 
I  goes.' 

'"More  labor.  Uncle  Bill?'  says  I.  'God's 
sake!* 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he;  'jus*  a  little  spurt 
afore  I  goes  in  peace.' 
19  279 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"Ah,  well!  he'd  labored  long  enough,  lived 
long  enough,  t*  leave  other  hands  clean  up  the 
litter  an'  sw^eep  the  room  o'  his  life.  I  didn't 
know^  w^hat  that  little  spurt  o'  labor  was  meant  t' 
win  for  his  peace  o'  mind — didn't  know  what  he'd 
left  undone — didn't  know  what  his  wish  or  his 
conscience  urged  un  t'  labor  for.  I  jus'  wanted 
un  t'  quit  an'  lie  down  in  the  sun.  '  For,'  thinks  I, 
'the  world  looks  wonderful  greedy  an'  harsh  t' 
me  when  I  hears  ol'  Bill  Hulk's  bones  rattle  over 
the  roads  or  come  squeakin'  through  the  Tickle 
in  his  punt.  *  Leave  un  go  in  peace!'  thinks  I. 
*I  isn't  got  no  love  for  a  world  that  sends  them 
bones  t'  sea  in  an  easterly  wind.  Ecod!'  thinks  I; 
'but  he've  earned  quiet  passage  by  jus'  livin'  t' 
that  ghastly  age — ^jus'  by  hangin'  on  off  a  lee 
shore  in  the  mean  gales  o'  life.'  Seemed  t'  me, 
too,  no  matter  how  Bill  felt  about  it,  that  he 
might  be  obligin*  an'  quit  afore  he  was  through. 
Seemed  t'  me  he  might  jus'  stop  where  he  was  an' 
leave  the  friends  an'  neighbors  finish  up.  'Tisn't 
fair  t'  ask  a  man  t'  have  his  labor  done  in  a  ship- 
shape way — t'  be  through  with  the  splittin'  an* 
all  cleaned  up  —  when  the  Skipper  sings  out, 
'Knock  off,  ye  dunderhead!'  Seems  t'  me  a 
man  might  leave  the  crew  t'  wash  the  table  an' 
swab  the  deck  an'  throw  the  livers  in  the  cask. 

2»o 


THE   SURPLUS 


.  "'You  be  obligin',  Bill,'  s^ys  I,  'an'  quit.' 
"'Isn't  able,'  says  he,  'till  I'm  through.' 
"So   the   bones   o'   ol'    Bill   Hulk   rattled   ah' 

sqiieakea  right  on  till  it  made  me  fair  achfe  when 

I  thunk  o'  Gingerbread  Cove. 

"About  four  year  after  that  I  rhade  the  Cove 
in  the  sprihg  o'  the  year  with  supplies.  'Well,' 
thinks  I,  '  they  won't  be  no  Bill  Hulk  this  season. 
With  that  pain  in  his  back  an'  starboard  leg,  this 
MV^inter  have  finished  he;  an'  I'll  lay  a  deal  on 
that.'  'Twas  afore  dawn  when  we  dropped 
anchor,  an'  a  dirty  dawn,  too,  with  fog  ah'  rain, 
the  wind  sharp,  an'  the  harbor  in  a  tumble  for 
small  craft;  but  the  first  man  over  the  side  was 
ol'  Bill  Hulk. 

'"It  cant  be  you.  Uncle  Bill!'  says  I. 

"'Tiimm,'  says  he,  *I  isn't  quite  through — 
yet.' 

"'You  isn't  goin'  at  it  this  season,  is  you?' 

"'Ay,'  S2tys  he;  *goin'  at  it  again,  Tumm.' 

"'What  for?' says  I. 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he. 

"'But  what  for?' 

"'Well,'  says  hfe^  'I'm  savin'  u|5.' 

"'Savin*  up?'  says  I.  *  Shame  to  you!  What 
you  savin'  up  for  ?' 

281 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

*"Oh/  says  he,  *jus*  savin'  up/ 

" '  But  what  for  T  says  I.  *  What's  the  sense 
of  it?* 

"*Bit  o*  property,*  says  he.  'I'm  thinkin*o* 
makin'  a  small  investment.* 

"*At  your  age,  Uncle  Bill!'  says  I.  *An*  a 
childless  man!' 

" '  Jus'  a  small  piece,'  says  he.  *  Nothin'  much, 
Tumm.* 

"  *  But  it  won't  do  you  no  goody  says  I. 

"*Well,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'I'm  sort  o'  wantin* 
it,  an'  I  'low  she  won't  go  t'  waste.  I  been 
fishin'  from  Gingerbread  Cove  for  three  hundred 
year,'  says  he,  *an'  when  I  knocks  off  I  wants  t' 
have  things  ship-shape.  Isn't  no  comfort,  Tumm,' 
says  he,  *in  knockin'  off  no  other  way.' 

"Three  hundred  year  he  'lowed  he'd  fished 
from  that  there  harbor,  a  hook-an'-line  man 
through  it  all;  an'  as  they  wasn't  none  o'  us  abroad 
on  the  coast  when  he  come  in,  he'd  stick  to  it, 
spite  o'  parsons.  They  was  a  mean  little  red- 
headed parson  came  near  churchin'  un  for  the 
whopper;  but  Bill  Hulk  wouldn't  repent.  'You 
isn't  been  here  long  enough  t'  know,  parson,'  says 
he.  "Tis  goin'  on  three  hundred  year,  I  tells 
you!  I'll  haul  into  my  fourth  hundred,'  says  he, 
*come  forty-three  year  from   Friday  fortnight.* 

282 


THE   SURPLUS 


Anyhow,  he'd  been  castin*  lines  on  the  Ginger- 
bread grounds  quite  long  enough.  'Twas  like 
t'  make  a  man's  back  ache — t'  make  his  head  spin 
an'  his  stomach  shudder — ^jus'  t'  think  o'  the 
years  o'  labor  an'  hardship  Bill  Hulk  had  weath- 
ered. Seemed  t'  me  the  very  stars  must  o'  got 
fair  disgusted  t'  watch  un  put  out  through  the 
Tickle  afore  dawn  an'  pull  in  after  dark. 

"'Lord!'  says  they.  *If  there  ain't  Bill  Hulk 
puttin'  out  again!  Won't  nothin'  ever  happen 
t'  he?'" 

I  thought  it  an  unkind  imputation. 

"Well,"  Tumm  explained,  "the  little  beggars 
Is  used  t'  change;  an'  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  they 
was  bored  a  bit  by  ol'  Bill  Hulk." 

It  might  have  been. 

"Four  or  five  year  after  that,"  Tumm  pro- 
ceeded, "the  tail  of  a  sou'east  gale  slapped  me 
into  Gingerbread  Cove,  an'  I  'lowed  t'  hang  the 
ol'  girl  up  till  the  weather  turned  civil.  Thinks 
I,  "Tis  wonderful  dark  an*  wet,  but  'tis  also 
wonderful  early,  an'  I'll  jus'  take  a  run  ashore 
t'  yarn  an'  darn  along  o'  ol'  Bill  Hulk.*  So  I 
put  a  bottle  in  my  pocket  t'  warm  the  ol'  ghost's 
marrow,  an'  put  out  for  Seven  Stars  Head  in  the 
rodney.  'Twas  mean  pullin'  agin  the  wind,  but 
I  fetched  the  stage-head  't  last,  an*  went  crawlin' 

283 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

up  the  hill.  Thinks  I,  'They's  no  sense  in  knock- 
m*  in  a  gale  o'  wind  like  this,  for  Bill  Hulk's  so 
wonderful  hard  o'  hearin'  in  a  sou'east  blow.' 

"So  I  drove  on  in. 

"'Lord's  sake,  Bill!'  says  I,  'what  you  up  to  ?' 

"'Nothin'  much,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

'"It  don't  look  right,'  says  L     'What  ;j-  it  ?* 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he;  'jus'  countin'  up 
my  mpney.' 

"'Twas  true  enough:  there  he  sot — playin* 
with  his  fortune.  They  was  pounds  of  it: 
coppers  an'  big  round  pennies  an'  silver  an'  one 
lope  gold  piece. 

"'You  been  gettin*  rich?'  says  L 

"'Tumm,'  says  he,  'you  got  any  clear  idea  o' 
how  much  hard  cash  they  is  lyin'  right  there  on 
that  plain  deal  table  in  this  here  very  kitchen 
you  is  in  r 

'"I  isn't,'  says  L 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'they's  as  much  as  fourteen 
(JoUar!    An'  what  d'ye  think  p'  that  ?' 

"I  'lowed  I'd  hold  my  tongue;  so  I  jus'  lifted 
my  eyebrow,  an'  thpn  sort  o'  whistled,  'Whew!' 

"'Fourteen,'  says  he,  *an'  more!' 

'"  WhewP  says  I. 

"'An',  Tumm,'  says  he,  *I  had  twenty-four 
sixty  oncp — about  pighteen  year  ago.* 

284 


THE   SURPLUS 


"'You  got  a  heap  now,'  says  I.  'Fourteen 
dollar!     Whew!' 

"*No,  Tumm!'  cries  he,  all  of  a  sudden.  'No, 
no!  I  been  lyin'  t'  you.  I  been  lyin'!'  says  he. 
'Lyin'!' 

'"I  don't  care,*  says  I;  'you  go  right  ahead  an* 
lie/ 

'"They  isn*t  fourteen  dollar  there,'  says  he. 
*I  jus'  been  makin'  believe  they  was.  See  that 
there  little  pile  o'  pennies  t'  the  nor'east }  I  been 
sittin'  here  countin'  in  them  pennies  twice.  They 
isn't  fourteen  dollar,'  says  he;  'they's  on'y  thirteen 
eighty-four!     But  I  wisht  they  was  fourteen.' 

"'Never  you  mind,'  says  I;  'you'll  get  that  bit 
o'  prope'ty  yet.' 

'"I  got  to,'  says  he,  'afore  I  goes.' 

"'Where  does  it  lie?'  says  I. 

"'Oh,  'tisn't  nothin'  much,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

'"But  what /jit?' 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he;  'jus'  a  small  piece.' 

'"Is  it  meadow?'  says  I. 

"'No,'  says  he;  "tisn't  what  you  might  call 
meadow  an'  be  right,  though  the  grass  grows 
there,  in  spots,  knee  high.' 

"'Is  it  a  potato-patch  i" 

"'No,'  says  he;  'nor  yet  a  patch.' 

""Tisn't  a  -flower  garden,  is  it  ?'  says  I, 
285 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"*N-no/  says  he;  *you  couldn't  rightly  say  so 
— ^though  they  grows  there,  in  spots,  quite  free 
an*  nice.* 

"* Uncle  Bill,*  says  I,  *you  isn't  never  told  me 
nothin*  about  that  there  bit  o*  prope'ty.  What's 
it  held  at?' 

"'The  prope'ty  isn't  much,  Tumm,'  says  he. 
*Jus'  a  small  piece.' 

"  *  But  how  much  is  it  ?' 

"'Tom  Neverbudge,'  says  he,  *is  holdin'  it  at 
twenty-four  dollar;  he've  come  down  one  in  the 
las*  seven  year.  But  I'm  on'y  'lowin'  t'  pay 
twenty-one;  you  sees  I've  come  up  one  in  the  las' 
jour  year.' 

""Twould  not  be  hard  t*  split  the  difference,* 
says  I. 

"*Ay,*  says  he;  *but  they's  a  wonderful  good 
reason  for  not  payin'  more'n  twenty-one  for  that 
there  special  bit  o'  land.* 

"'What's  that.?'  says  I. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  "tis  second-handed.' 

"'Second-handed!'  says  I.     'That's  queer!* 

"'Been  used,'  says  he. 

"'Used,  Uncle  Bill.?' 

"'Ay,'  says  he;  'been  used — been  used,  now, 
for  nigh  sixty  year,' 

'"She's  all  wore  out .?'  says  I. 
286 


THE   SURPLUS 


"'No,'  says  he;  *not  wore  out.' 

*"She'J  grow  nothin'  ?'  says  I. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'nothin'  much  is  expected, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  'in  that  line.' 

"I  give  a  tug  at  my  pocket,  an',  ecod!  out 
jumped  the  bottle  o'  Scotch. 

"'Well,  well!'  says  he.  'Dear  man!  But  I 
bet  ye,'  says  he,  'that  you  isn't  fetched  no  pain- 
killer.' 

"'That  I  is!' says  I. 

"'Then,'  says  he,  'about  half  an'  half,  Tumm, 
with  a  dash  o'  water;  that's  the  way  I  likes  it 
when  I  takes  it.* 

"So  we  fell  to,  ol*  Bill  Hulk  an'  me,  on  the 
Scotch  an'  the  pain-killer. 

"Well,  now,  after  that,"  Tumm  resumed, 
presently,  "I  went  deep  sea  for  four  year  in  the 
South  American  fish  trade;  an'  then,  my  ol'  berth 
on  the  Quick  as  Wink  bein'  free  of  incumbrance 
— 'twas  a  saucy  young  clerk  o'  the  name  o'  Bully- 
worth — I  'lowed  t*  blow  the  fever  out  o'  my 
system  with  the  gales  o'  this  here  coast.  *A 
whiff  or  two  o'  real  wind  an'  a  sight  o*  Mother 
Burke,'  thinks  I,  'will  fix  me*  'Twas  a  fine 
Sunday  mornin*  in  June  when  I  fetched  Ginger- 
bread Cove  in  the  ol'  craft — ^warm  an'  blue  an' 

287 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

still  an'  sweet  t'  smell.  'They'll  be  no  Bill  Hulk, 
thank  God!'  thinks  I,  *t'  be  crawlin'  up  the  hill  t' 
meetin'  this  day;  he've  got  through  an*  gone  t* 
his  berth  for  all  time.  I'd  like  t'  yarn  with  un 
on  this  fine  civil  Sunday,'  thinks  I;  'but  I  'low 
he's  jus*  as  glad  as  I  is  that  he've  been  stowed 
away  nice  an*  comfortable  at  last.*  But  from 
the  deck,  ecod!  when  I  looked  up  from  shavin', 
an*  Skipper  Jim  was  washin*  up  in  the  fore- 
castle, I  cotched  sight  o*  ol*  Bill  Hulk,  bound  up 
the  hill  through  the  sunshine,  makin*  tolerable 
weather  of  it,  with  the  wind  astern,  a  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  the  braw  black  coat  on  his  back. 

'"Skipper  Jim,*  sings  I,  t*  the  skipper  below, 
*you  hear  a  queer  noise  ?* 

'"No,*  says  he. 

"'Nothin*  Hke  a  squeak  or  a  rattle  ?* 

'"No,*  says  he.     'What*s  awry.?' 

'"Oh,  nothin',*  says  I: '  on*y  ol*  Bill  Hulk*s  on 
the  road.* 

"I  watched  un  crawl  through  the  little  door  on 
Meetin*-house  Hill  long  after  ol'  Sammy  Street 
had  knocked  off  puUin*  the  bell;  an*  if  I  didn't 
hear  neither  squeak  nor  rattle  as  he  crep*  along, 
why,  I  felt  un,  anyhow,  which  is  jus*  as  hard  to 
bear.  'Well,*  thinks  I,  'he*ve  kep*  them  bones 
above  ground,  poor  man!  but  he*s  never  at  it 

288 


THE   SURPLUS 


yet.  He've  knocked  oflF  for  good,'  thinks  I;  'he'll 
stumble  t'  meetin'  of  a  fine  Sunday  mornin',  an' 
sit  in  the  sun  for  a  spell;  an'  then,*  thinks  I, 
*  they'll  stow  un  away  where  he  belongs.'  So  I 
went  aboard  of  un  that  evenin'  for  a  last  bit 
of  a  yarn  afore  his  poor  ol'  throat  rattled  an' 
quit. 

*"So,'  says  I,  'you  is  at  it  yet  ?' 

"'Ay,  Tumm,'  says  he;  'isn't  quite  through — 
yet.     But,'  says  he,  'I'm  'lowin'  t'  be.* 

"'Hard  at  it,  Uncle  Bill  ?' says  I. 

"'Well,  no,  Tumm,'  says  he;  'not  hard.  Back 
give  warnin'  a  couple  o'  year  ago,'  says  he,  'an' 
I  been  sort  o'  easin'  off  for  fear  q'  accident.  I've 
quit  the  Far  Away  grounds,'  says  he,  'but  I  been 
doin'  very  fair  on  Widows'  Shoal.  They's  on'y 
one  o'  them  fishin'  there  nowadays,  an*  she 
'lowed  she  didn't  care.' 

"'An*  when,'  says  I,  'is  you  'lowin'  t'  knock 

"'Jus'  as  soon  as  I  gets  through,  Tumm,'  says 
be.     'I  won't  be  a  minute  longer.' 

"Then  along  come  the  lean-cheeked,  pig-eyed, 
scrawny-whiskered  son  of  a  squid  which  owned 
the  bit  o'  prope'ty  that  Bill  Hulk  had  coveted  for 
thirty  year.  Man  q'  the  name  q'  Tom  Budge; 
but  as  he  seldom  done  it,  they  called  un  Nevpr- 

289 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

budge;  an'  Gingerbread  Cove  is  full  o'  Never- 
budges  t'  this  day.  Bill  'lowed  I  might  as  well 
go  along  o'  he  an'  Tom  t'  overhaul  the  bit  o'  land 
they  was  tryin'  t'  trade;  so  out  we  put  on  the 
inland  road — round  Burnt  Bight,  over  the  crest 
o'  Knock  Hill,  an'  along  the  alder-fringed  path. 
'Twas  in  a  green,  still,  soft-breasted  little  valley 
— a  little  pool  o'  sunshine  an'  grass  among  the 
hills — ^with  Ragged  Ridge  t'  break  the  winds  from 
the  sea,  an'  the  wooded  slope  o'  the  Hog's  Back 
t'  stop  the  nor'westerly  gales.  'Twas  a  lovely 
spot,  sir,  believe  me,  an'  a  gentle-hearted  one, 
too,  lyin'  deep  in  the  warmth  an'  glory  o'  sun- 
shine, where  a  man  might  lay  his  head  on  the 
young  grass  an'  go  t'  sleep,  not  mindin'  about 
nothin'  no  more.  Ol'  Bill  Hulk  liked  it  wonder- 
ful well.  Wasn't  no  square  o'  ground  on  that 
coast  that  he'd  rather  own,  says  he,  than  the  little 
plot  in  the  sou'east  comer  o'  that  graveyard. 

"'Sight  rather  have  that,  Tumm,'  says  he, 
'than  a  half-acre  farm.' 

"'Twas  so  soft  an'  snug  an'  sleepy  an'  still  in 
that  little  graveyard  that  I  couldn't  blame  un 
for  wantin'  t'  stretch  out  somewheres  an'  stay 
there  forever. 

"*Ay,'  says  he,  *an'  a  thirty-foot  potato-patch 
throwed  in!' 

290 


THE   SURPLUS 


"*'Tis  yours  at  the  price,'  says  Tom  Never- 
budge. 

"'///  says  Bill  Hulk,  *'twasn't  a  second-handed 
plot.  See  them  graves  in  the  sou'west  corner, 
Tumm  ?* 

"Graves  o*  two  children,  sir:  jus*  on*y  that — 
laid  side  by  side,  sir,  v^here  the  sunlight  lingered 
afore  the  shadow  o*  Hog's  Back  fell. 

"  *  Been  there  nigh  sixty  year,*  says  Bill.  *  Pity,* 
says  he;  'wonderful  pity.' 

"'They  won't  do  you  no  harm,*  says  Never- 
budge. 

"'Ay,'  says  Bill;  'but  Tm  a  bachelor,  Tom, 
used  t'  sleepin'  alone,*  says  he,  'an'  I'm  'lowin'  I 
wouldn't  take  so  wonderful  quick  t'  any  other 
habit.  I'm  told,'  says  he,  'that  sleepin'  along  o' 
children  isn't  what  you  might  call  a  easy  berth.* 

"'You'd  soon  get  used  t*  thaty  says  Never- 
budge.     'Any  family  man  '11  tell  you  so.' 

'"Ay,*  says  Bill;  'but  they  isn't  kin  o'  mine. 
Why,'  says  he,  '  they  isn't  even  friends !' 

"'That  don't  matter,'  says  Neverbudge. 

"'Not  matter!'  says  he.  'Can  you  tell  me, 
Tom  Neverbudge,  the  names  o'  them  children  ?' 

"'Not  me.' 

"'Nor  yet  their  father's  name  V 

"'No,  sir.' 

291 


EVERY    MAN    FDR    HIMSELF 

"'Then,'  says  Bill,  *as  a  religious  man,  is  you 
able  t'  tell  me  they  was  born  in  a  proper  an' 
petfeckly  religious  manner  ?' 

"'I  isn't,'  says  Neverbudge.  'I  guarantees 
nothin'.' 

"*An'  yet,  as  a  religious  man,'  says  Bill,  'you 
Stands  thetfe  an'  says  it  doesn't  matter  ?' 

"'Anyhow,'  says  Neverbudge,  'it  doesti't  mat- 
te!" much/ 

"'Not  much!'  cries  Bill.  'An'  you  a  religious 
matt!  Not  miich  t'  lie  for  good  an'  all,'  says  he, 
'in  the  company  o'  the  damned?' 

"With  that  Tdni  Neverbudge  put  off  in  a  rage. 

'"Uncle  Billy,'  says  I,  'what  you  wantin' 
that  plot  for,  anyhow  ?  'Tis  so  damp  'tis  fair 
swampy.' 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he. 

" '  But  what  for  ?*  says  I. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'I  wants  it.' 

'*'An'  'tis  ott  a  side-hill,'  says  I.  'If  the 
dunderheads  doesn't  dig  with  care,  you'll  find 
yourself  with  your  feet  higher'n  your  head.' 

"'Well,'  says  he,  'I  wants  it.' 

'"Ybu  isn't  got  no  friends  in  this  neighbor- 
hood,* says  I;  'they're  all  put  away  on  the  north 
side.  An'  the  sun,'  says  I,  'doesn't  strike  here 
last.' 

29a 


THE   SURPLUS 


"'1  wants  it,'  says  he. 

"'What  for?' says  I. 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he;  'but  I  wants  it.' 

"'But  what  for  f  says  I. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  in  a  temper,  'I  got  a  hank- 
erin  for  it!' 

"'Then,  Uncle  Bill,'  says  I,  for  it  made  me 
sad,  '  I  wouldn't  mind  them  little  graves.  They're 
poor  wee  things,'  says  I,  'an'  they  wouldn't  dis^ 
turb  your  rest.' 

"'Hush!'  says  he.     'Don't— ^o«'/  say  that!' 

'"Graves  o'  children,'  says  I. 

"'Don't  say  no  more,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

"'Jus'  on'y  poor  little  kids,'  says  I. 

"'Stop!'  says  he.  'Doesn't  you  see  I'm 
crym  i 

"Then  up  come  Tom  Neverbudge.  'Look 
you,  Bill  Hulk!'  says  he,  'you  can  take  that  plot 
or  leave  it.  I'll  knock  off  seventy-five  cents  on 
account  o'  the  risk  you  take  in  them  children. 
Come  now!'  says  he;  'you  take  it  or  leave  it.' 

" '  Twenty-one  fifty,'  says  Bill.  '  That's  a  raise 
o'  fifty,  Tom.' 

"'Then,'  says  Tom,  'I'll  use  that  plot  meself.' 

"Bill  Hulk  jumped.  'You!'  says  he.  'Nothin' 
gone  wrong  along  o'  you,  is  they,  Tom  ?' 

"'Not  yet,'  says  Tom;  'but  they  might.' 
*93 


EVERY    MAN   FOR   HIMSELF 

"*No  chill,'  says  Bill,  *an*  no  fever  ?  No  ache 
in  your  back,  is  they,  Tom  ?' 

"*Nar  a  ache/ 

"*An*  you  isn't  give  up  the  Labrador?* 

"'Not  mel' 

"*Oh,  well,'  says  Bill,  feelin'  easy  again,  *I 
'low  you  won't  never  need  no  graveyard.' 

"Tom  Neverbudge  up  canvas  an'  went  off 
afore  the  wind  in  a  wonderful  temper;  an*  then 
ol'  Bill  Hulk  an*  me  took  the  homeward  road. 
I  remembers  the  day  quite  well — the  low,  warm 
sun,  the  long  shadows,  the  fresh  youth  an'  green 
o'  leaves  an'  grass,  the  tinkle  o*  bells  on  the  hills, 
the  reaches  o'  sea,  the  peace  o*  weather  an* 
Sabbath  day.  I  remembers  it  well:  the  wheeze 
an*  groan  o*  ol'  Bill — crawlin'  home,  sunk  deep 
in  the  thought  o'  graves — an'  the  tender,  bedtime 
twitter  o'  the  new-mated  birds  in  the  alders. 
When  we  rounded  Fish  Head  Rock — 'tis  half- 
way from  the  graveyard — I  seed  a  lad  an'  a  maid 
flit  back  from  the  path  t'  hide  whilst  we  crep'  by; 
an'  they  was  a  laugh  on  the  lad's  lips,  an'  a  smile 
an'  a  sweet  blush  on  the  maid's  young  face,  as 
maids  will  blush  an'  lads  will  laugh  when  love 
lifts  un  high.  'Twas  at  that  spot  I  cotched  ear 
of  a  sound  I  knowed  quite  well,  havin'  made  it 
meself,  thank  God!  many  a  time  an'  gladly. 

294 


THE   SURPLUS 


"Bill  Hulk  stopped  dead  in  the  path.  *  What's 
that?*  says  he. 

"*Is  you  not  knowin*  ?'  says  I. 

"'I've  heared  it  afore,*  says  he,  *somewheres.' 

"*'Twas  a  kiss,'  says  I. 

"*Tumm,*  says  he,  in  a  sort  o*  scared  whisper, 
*  is  they  at  that  yet  in  the  world  P' 

"*Jus*  as  they  used  t'  be,*  says  I,  *when  you 
was  young.* 

"*Well,*  says  he,  *jig  mel' 

"Then  I  knowed,  somehow,  jus*  how  old  ol' 
Bill  Hulk  must  be. 

"Well,  thereafter,'*  Tumm  continued,  with  a 
sigh  and  a  genial  little  smile,  "they  come  lean 
years  an*  they  come  fat  ones,  as  always,  by  the 
mystery  o'  God.  Ol*  Bill  Hulk  drove  along 
afore  the  wind,  with  his  last  rags  o*  sail  all  spread, 
his  fortune  lean  or  fat  as  the  Lord's  own  seasons 
*lowed.  He'd  fall  behind  or  crawl  ahead  jus* 
accordin*  t*  the  way  a  careful  hand  might  divide 
fish  by  hunger;  but  I  *lowed,  by  an'  all,  he 
was  overhaulin'  Tom  Neverbudge*s  twenty-three 
twenty-five,  an*  would  surely  make  it  if  the  wind 
held  true  a  few  years  longer.  *  Twelve  thirty 
more,  Tumm,'  says  he,  *an*  if  *twasn't  for  the 
pork  I  might  manage  it  this  season.  The  longer 
ao  295 


EVERY   MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

you  lives,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'the  more  expensive 
it  gets.  Cost  me  four  fifty  las'  season  for 
Dr.  Hook*s  Surecure  Egyptian  Lumbago  Oil, 
an'  one  fifty,  Tumm,  for  a  pair  o'  green  glasses 
t'  fend  off  blindness  from  the  aged.  An'  I  jus'  got 
t'  have  pork  t'  keep  my  ol'  bones  warm.  I  don't 
want  no  pork,'  says  he;  'but  they  isn't  no  heat  in 
flour,  an',  anyhow,  I  got  t'  build  my  shoulder 
muscles  up.  You  take  a  ol'  hulk  like  mine,'  says 
he,  *an*  you'll  find  it  a  wonderful  expensive  craft 
t'  keep  in  sailin'  order.' 

"'You  stick  t'  pork,'  says  L 

"*I  was  thinkin','  says  he,  'o'  makin'  a  small 
investment  in  a  few  bottles  o'  Hook's  Vigor. 
Clerk  o'  the  Free  for  Ally  says  he,  "lows  'tis  a 
wonderful  nostrum  t'  make  the  old  feel  young.' 

"'You  stick  t'  pork,*  says  I,  'an'  be  damned 
t'  the  clerk  o'  the  Free  for  All' 

'"Maybe  I  better,'  says  he,  'an'  build  up  my 
shoulders.     They  jus'  got  t'  be  humored.' 

"Or  Bill  Hulk  always  'lowed  that  if  by  God's 
chance  they'd  on'y  come  a  fair  fishin'  season 
afore  his  shoulders  give  out  he'd  make  a  self- 
respectin'  haul  an'  be  through.  'Back  give  out 
about  thirteen  year  ago,'  says  he,  'the  time  I  got 
cotched  by  a  dirty  nor'easter  on  the  Bull's  Horn 
grounds.     One  o'  them  strings  back  there  sort 

296 


THE   SURPLUS 


o'  went  an'  snapped,'  says  he,  *jus'  as  I  was 
pullin'  in  the  Tickle,  an'  she  isn't  been  o'  much 
use  t'  me  since.  Been  rowin'  with  my  shoulders 
for  a  little  bit  past,'  says  he, '  an'  doin'  very  fair  in 
southerly  weather;  but  I  got  a  saucy  warnin',* 
says  he,  *that  they  won't  stand  nothin*  from  the 
nor'east.  "No,  sir,"  says  they;  "nothin'  from 
the  nor'east  for  we.  Bill  Hulk,  an'  don't  you  put 
us  to  it!"  I'm  jus'  a  bit  afeared,'  says  he,  'that 
they  might  get  out  o' temper  in  a  southerly  tumble; 
an*  if  they  done  that,  why,  I'd  jus'  have  t'  stop, 
dear  Lord!'  says  he,  "ithout  bein'  through!  Isn't 
got  no  legs  t'  speak  of,'  says  he,  'but  I  don't  need 
none.  I  got  my  arms  runnin'  free,'  says  he,  *an' 
I  got  one  thumb  an'  all  my  fishin'  fingers  *ceptin' 
two.  Lungs,'  says  he,  'is  so-so;  they  wheezes, 
Tumm,  as  you  knows,  an'  they  labors  in  a  fog, 
an'  aches  all  the  time,  but  chances  is  they'll  lasty 
an'  a  fair  man  can't  ask  no  more.  As  for  liver, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  'they  isn't  a  liver  on  these  here 
coasts  t'  touch  the  liver  I  got.  Why,*  says  he,  '  I 
never  knowed  I  had  one  till  I  was  toldl* 
"'Liver,'  says  I,  'is  a  ticklish  business.* 
""Lowin'  a  man  didn't  overeat,'  says  he, 
'think  he  could  spurt  along  for  a  spell  on  his 
liver  ?* 

"*I  does,'  says  I. 

297 


EVERY    MAN    FOR    HIMSELF 

"'That's  good/  says  he;  'for  I'm  countin'  a 
deal  on  she.* 

"'Never  you  fear/  says  I.  *  She'll  stand 
you.* 

"'Think  she  will?'  says  he,  jus*  like  a  child. 
*  Maybe,  then,'  says  he,  'with  my  own  labor, 
Tumm,  I'll  buy  my  own  grave  at  last!* 

"But  the  season  bore  hard  on  the  ol'  man,  an* 
when  I  balanced  un  up  in  the  fall  o*  the  year, 
the  twelve  thirty  he'd  been  t'  leeward  o*  the  twenty- 
three  twenty- live  Tom  Neverbudge  wanted  for 
the  plot  where  the  two  little  graves  lay  side  by 
side  had  growed  t*  fifteen  ninety-three. 

'"Jus*  where  I  was  nine  year  ago,*  says  he, 
'lackin*  thirty-four  cents.* 

'"Never  you  fear,*  says  I 

"'My  God!  Tumm/  says  he,  'I  got  t'  do  better 


Tumm  paused  to  gaze  at  the  stars. 

"Still  there/'  I  ventured. 

"Winkin'  away,"  he  answered,  "the  wise  little 
beggars!" 

The  Good  Samaritan  dawdled  onward. 

"Well,  now,  sir,"  Tumm  continued,  "winter 
tumbled  down  on  Gingerbread  Cove,  thick  an* 
heavy,  with  nor'east  gales  an'  mountains  o*  snow; 

298 


THE   SURPLUS 


but  ol'  Bill  Hulk  weathered  it  out  on  his  own 
hook,  an'  by  March  o'  that  season,  I'm  told,  had 
got  so  far  along  with  his  shoulder  muscles  that 
he  went  swilin'  [sealing]  with  the  Gingerbread 
men  at  the  first  ofF-shore  sign.  'Twas  a  big  pack, 
four  mile  out  on  the  floe,  with  rough  ice,  a  drear 
gray  day,  an'  the  wind  in  a  nasty  temper.  He 
done  very  well,  I'm  told,  what  with  the  legs  he 
had,  an'  was  hard  at  it  when  the  wind  changed 
to  a  westerly  gale  an*  drove  the  ice  t'  sea.  They 
wasn't  no  hope  for  Bill,  with  four  mile  o*  ice 
atween  him  an'  the  shore,  an'  every  chunk  an* 
pan  o*  the  floe  in  a  mad  hurry  under  the  wind: 
they  knowed  it  an'  he  knowed  it.  *Lads,'  says 
he,  *you  jus'  run  along  home  or  you'll  miss  your 
supper.  As  for  me,'  says  he,  *why,  I'll  jus' 
keep  on  swilin*.  Might  as  well  make  a  haul,' 
says  he,  *  whatever  comes  of  it.'  The  last  they 
seed  o'  Bill,  I'm  told,  he  was  still  hard  at  it, 
gettin'  his  swiles  on  a  likely  pan;  an*  they  all 
come  safe  t'  land,  every  man  o'  them,  'ceptin' 
two  young  fellers,  I'm  told,  which  was  lost  in 
a  jam  oflF  the  Madman's  Head.  Wind  blowed 
westerly  all  that  night,  I'm  told,  but  fell  jus'  after 
dawn;  an*  then  they  nosed  poor  ol*  Bill  out  o*  the 
floe,  where  they  found  un  buried  t*  the  neck  in 
his  own  dead  swiles,  for  the  warmth  of  the  life 

299 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

they'd  had,  but  hard  put  to  it  t'  keep  the  spark 
alight  in  his  own  chilled  breast. 

"'Maybe  I'm  through,'  says  he,  when  they'd 
got  un  ashore;  'but  I'll  hang  on  so  long  as  I'm 
able/ 

"'Uncle  Billy,*  says  they,  'you're  good  for 
twenty  year  yet.* 

'"No  tellin',*  says  he. 

"'Oh,  sure!'  says  they;  'you'll  do  it.' 

'"Anyhow,*  says  he,  'now  that  you've  fetched 
me  t'  land,'  says  he,  'I  got  t'  hang  on  till  the 
Quick  as  fVink  comes  in.* 

"'What  for?'  says  they. 

"'Nothin*  much,*  says  he;  'but  I  jus'  got  to.* 

'"You  go  t'  bed,'  says  they,  'an*  we'll  stow 
them  swile  in  the  stage.* 

"Til  lie  down  an*  warm  up,*  says  he,  'an'  rest 
for  a  spell.  Jus*  a  little  spurt,*  says  he,  'jus*  a 
little  spurt — o'  rest,* 

"'You've  made  a  wonderful  haul,*  says  they. 

'"At  last!'  says  he. 

"'Rest  easy,*  says  they,  'as  t'  that.* 

"'Twas  the  women  that  put  un  t'  bed. 

"'Seems  t*  me,*  says  he,  'that  the  frost  has  bit 
my  heart.* 

"So  ol'  Bill  Hulk  was  flat  on  his  back  when 
I  made  Gingerbread  Cove  with  supplies  in  the 

300 


THE   SURPLUS 


first  o'  that  season — anchored  there  in  bed,  sir, 
at  last,  with  no  mortal  hope  o'  makin'  the 
open  sea  again.  Lord!  how  white  an'  withered 
an'  cold  he  was!  From  what  a  far- off  place 
in  age  an'  pain  an'  weariness  he  looked  back 
at  me! 

"'I  been  waitin',  Tumm,'  says  he.  'Does 
you  hear  ?' 

"I  bent  close  t'  hear. 

"Tm  in  a  hurry,'  says  he.  'Isn't  got  no 
chance  t'  pass  the  time  o'  day.     Does  you  hear  ?' 

"'Ay,'  says  L 

"'I  got  hopes,'  says  he.  'Tom  Neverbudge 
haves  come  down  t'  twenty-two  seventy-five. 
You'll  find  a  old  sock  in  the  corner  locker, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  'with  my  fortune  in  the  toe. 
Pass  un  here.  An'  hurry,  Tumm,  hurry,  for  I 
isn't  got  much  of  a  grip  left!  Now,  Tumm,' 
says  he,  'measure  the  swile  oil  in  the  stage  an' 
balance  me  up  for  the  las'  time.' 

" '  How  much  you  got  in  that  sock  ?'  says  L 

"'Nothin'  much,'  says  he.  'Jus'  a  little  left 
over.' 

" '  But  how  much  ?' 

"'I'm  not  wantin'  t'  tell,'  says  he,  'lest  you 
cheat  me  with  kindness.  I'd  have  you  treat  me 
as  a  man,  come  what  will.' 

301 


EVERY    MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

"'So  help  me  God!  then,  Bill  Hulk/  says  I, 
*ril  strike  that  balance  fair.' 

"'Tumm!'  he  called. 

"I  turned  in  the  door. 

"*Oh,  make  haste!'  says  he. 

"I  measured  the  swile  oil,  neither  givin*  nor 
takin*  a  drop,  an'  I  boarded  the  Quick  as  Wink, 
where  I  struck  ol*  Bill  Hulk's  las'  balance,  fair  t* 
the  penny,  as  atween  a  man  an'  a  man.  Ah! 
but  'twas  hard,  sir,  t*  add  no  copper  t'  the  mean 
small  total  that  faced  me  from  the  page:  for  the 
fortune  in  the  toe  o'  Bill  Hulk's  ol'  sock  was 
light  enough,  God  knows!  when  I  passed  un 
over. 

"'Tumm,*  says  he,  *  is  it  a  honest  balance?* 

"'It  is,'  says  I. 

"'Wait  a  minute!'  says  he.  *Jus'  a  minute 
afore  you  tells  me.     I  isn't  quite  ready.' 

"I  watched  the  sun  drop  into  the  sea  while  I 
waited. 

"'Now,'  says  he,  *tell  me  quick!* 

'"Nine  eighty-three,*  says  I. 

'"Add  t'  that,'  says  he,  'the  twelve  ninety- 
three  in  the  sock.     Quick,  Tumm!'  says  he. 

"I  scribbled  it  out. 

"'Wait!'  says  he.  'Just  a  minute,  Tumm, 
till  I  gets  a  better  grip.' 

30Z 


THE   SURPLUS 


I  seed  'twas  growin'  quite  gray  in  the  west. 

'Now!*  says  he. 

'Uncle  Billy/  roars  I,  "tis  twenty-two  sev- 
enty-six!' 

"'Send  for  Tom  Neverbudge!'  cries  he:  'for 
I  done  it — thank  God,  I  done  it!' 


"I  fetched  Tom  Neverbudge  with  me  own 
hands  t'  trade  that  grave  for  the  fortune  o'  ol' 
Bill  Hulk,"  Tumm  proceeded,  "an'  I  seed  for 
meself,  as  atween  a  party  o'  the  first  part  an'  a 
party  o'  the  second,  that  'twas  all  aboveboard  an' 
ship-shape,  makin'  what  haste  I  was  able,  for 
Bill  Hulk's  anchor  chain  showed  fearful  signs 
o'  givin'  out. 

*'  *  Is  it  done  ?*  says  he. 

"*A11  fast,'  says  I. 

"*A  plot  an'  a  penny  left  over!'  says  he. 

"*A  plot  an'  a  penny,'  says  I. 

***Tumm,'  says  he,  with  a  little  smile,  *I  needs 
the  plot,  but  you  take  the  penny.  'Tis  sort  o* 
surprisin','  says  he,  *an'  wonderful  nice,  too,  t* 
be  able  t'  make  a  bequest.  I'd  like  t'  do  it, 
Tumm,'  says  he,  *jus'  for  the  feel  of  it,  if  you 
don't  mind  the  size.' 

"I  'lowed  I'd  take  it  an'  be  glad. 

"*Look  you!  Bill  Hulk,'  says  Neverbudge, 
303 


EVERY   MAN    FOR   HIMSELF 

*if  them  graves  is  goin'  t'  trouble  you,  I'll  move 
un  an*  pay  the  cost  o'  labor.  There,  now!'  says 
he;  'that's  kind  enough.' 

"Bill  Hulk  got  up  on  his  elbow.  '  What 'W 
you  do  along  o'  my  plot  V  says  he. 

"*Move  them  graves,'  says  Neverbudge. 

"*You  leave  my  plot  be,  Tom  Neverbudge!' 
says  Bill.  'What  you  think  I  been  wantin'  t'  lie 
in  that  plot  for,  anyhow  V 

"Tom  Neverbudge  'lowed  he  didn't  know. 

"'Why,'  says  ol'  Bill  Hulk,  'jus*  t'  lie  along- 
side them  poor  lonely  little  kids!' 

"I  let  un  fall  back  on  the  pillow. 

"'I'm  through,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'an'  I  'low 
I'll  quit.' 

"Straightway  he  quit.  .  .  ." 

Wind  astern,  moonlight  and  mist  upon  the 
sea,  a  serene  and  tender  sky,  with  a  multitude  of 
stars  benignantly  peeping  from  its  mystery:  and 
the  Good  Samaritan  dawdled  on,  wing  and  wing 
to  the  breeze,  bound  across  from  Sinners'  Tickle 
to  Afterward  Bight,  there  to  deal  for  the  first  of 
the  catch.  Tumm  looked  up  to  the  sky.  He  was 
smiling  in  a  gentle,  wistful  way.  A  little  psa'm 
from  his  Bible  t  Again  I  wondered  concerning 
the  lesson.     "Wink  away,"  said  he,  "you  little 

304 


THE   SURPLUS 


beggars!  Wink  away — ^wink  away!  You  been 
lookin'  at  this  damned  thing  so  long  that  no 
wonder  you  winks.  Wink  away!  I'm  glad 
youVe  the  heart  t'  do  it.  I'm  not  troubled  by 
fears  when  you  winks  down,  you're  so  wonder- 
ful wiser'n  we.  Wink  on,  you  knowin'  little 
beggars!" 

This,  then,  it  seemed,  was  the  lesson. 


THE    END 


UCS5  tiBRARY 


;  SOUTHERN  REGONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITV 


A     000  61 1  223     9      J 


